Yuri! In the Dark
by VampireGRose
Summary: Yuri Katsuki is an obsessive fan of the silver-haired champion figure skater. Upon his recent loss at the Grand Prix Finals in Sochi, his obsession spirals out of control. So what will a chance encounter with his idol entail?
1. Chapter 1

1\. Yuri - I

* * *

 **A/N** : Please read this before descending. First off, this short fiction was created out of a mixture of boredom and curiosity. I've read plenty of AU stories featuring this couple but nothing of this…design. Second, I was inspired by several stories including Stephen King's _Misery_ , _Killing Stalking_ , and another, rather notorious, fanfic called "Cupcakes." So make of _that_ what you will. Anyway, please enjoy this triviality of insanity. And for the love of eye bleach, DO **_NOT_** READ THIS TO YOUR KIDS!

* * *

Moments before he heads into the rink to perform in front of millions, all Yuri Katsuki can think about is his silver-haired idol. The ethereal being that has conquered figure skating for years flashes an electrifying smile as he exits the rink, sending the young man's heart into frenzy. And it is his idol's warm expression that encourages Yuri to do well tonight. Should he not, he will lose his chance to ever stand before Victor Nikiforov and confess his love.

He gathers himself up from his seat and inhales deeply. His heart continues to flutter like a butterfly's wings. His face heats up. His palms and back beat sweat. His legs buckle, and he tightens the straps on his skates. Yuri knows he looks a mess. But if not this shot, he has nothing left.

 _I will be the most beautiful pork cutlet bowl. Just you wait, Victor._

The time grows nigh.

Yuri Katsuki enters the rink and takes his position. A blinding light blurs out the audience and hits his eyes with such intensity that his confidence wavers. If only the world weren't so cruel. If only he had prepared more. If only he hadn't let himself fall so deep.

But the world has no sympathy for him, and, without his full attention, the music begins…

* * *

It's over. His career. His life. His world. It's all over. The echo of the audience's disgust still lingers within him, and it grows like some parasite feasting on his innards, gnawing on his heart, burrowing deep inside and finding shelter there. It doesn't matter if he dies today or tomorrow. Nobody would care. Especially not Victor.

Yuri can see his face decay. His otherworldly handsome features melt away, skin muscle and blood, until a skeleton remains. The bones crack, and the skeleton dissolves into dust particles that float away with the wind. Yuri reaches to save them, preserve some part of Victor, but to no avail.

 _No, please don't leave me_!

But there's nothing he can do.

Yuri awakes in the hot spring. How long he had slept for, he cannot tell, though his body has suffered some temporary damage. His skin feels wrinkly and hard to the touch. He deduces he's been here for at least a couple of hours. Running his fingers through his dark hair, he wonders when he had returned home. A day ago? A few days ago? It seems as if the Grand Prix Finals had just concluded. His great loss must have clouded his short-term memory.

At least Victor's death was a dream.

Yuri leaves the hot springs and dries himself off before falling into his bed and pulling the sheets over his head. The dream—no—the nightmare felt more real than any he's suffered before. Seeing Victor's fine features deteriorate right in front of him sends a chill down his spine. Yuri's heart stutters, and no amount of deep breathing can quell the excited organ. Its beat grows so loud that he can hear it in his eardrums. His knees hike up to his chest like he's a fetus in the womb. Blood pumps to his cheeks. Yuri buries his face into his pillow in a futile attempt to dissolve the problem. It doesn't.

His hand reaches under the pillow, blindly searching for something he's kept hidden from everyone. He pulls out a picture of Victor and holds it to his aching chest. It's a photo he had taken off the Internet after Victor won his fourth championship title. He's had many pictures like it. Every time Victor skates, Yuri spends all night scoping through forums and pictures of the silver-haired beauty, finding one picture that he can download and hold onto in lieu of Victor. This particular picture is of the Russian holding his medal in one hand and smiling brightly at the photo—at Yuri. Tears well in Yuri's eyes, and he shuts them tightly together. _Please. Please, help me Victor_! _Please forgive me for failing you_!

 _Why_?

Yuri's eyes fly open, and he pulls the sheets off him. He scopes his room, searching for the source but finds nothing. His grip tightens around Victor's picture, hoping to find strength in its comfort. When it seems like nothing will come out and spook him, he drifts back under the covers.

"Victor," he says, brushing the picture with his fingers, lingering them over the Russian's pure smile. Then he presses the photo to his lips and inhales through his nose. He imagines breathing in Victor's natural scent. Letting it seep into his lungs and fill him up until the scent becomes a part of him that he can't live without, just like blood.

 _You did nothing wrong._

There it is again. This time, Yuri is certain he heard a voice and hops out of bed. "Who's there?"

 _It's me, Yuri._

His brow furrows, and something in his gut tells him to look at the picture for guidance. "Victor?" He swallows hard.

 _Yes, I'm here._

His eyes widen. The blood and his face drains. "Wha-what is this?"

 _What's it look like_? _It's me, Victor. Your idol_. _I'm here now. You can talk to me. Don't be afraid._

Yuri licks his lips. A part of him can't help but feel jubilance overflow every fiber of his being, while the other part worries he'll wake up at any moment. But Victor's eyes glimmer in the photo, and his smile seems to widen with reassurance. Yuri reflects the expression as several stray tears slide down his cheeks. One lands on the picture, and Victor's smile disintegrates.

 _Why are you upset?_

"Because I lost."

 _Lost, what_? _The Grand Prix_? Victor's voice scoffs. _There's no such thing as losing, Yuri. You've put that in your mind, and your body reacts to your mind's mental state. You haven't lost. You just_ think _you have._

Yuri blinks. "I _think_ I have?"

 _Yes. Losing is just a word that holds no meaning. But it's up to you whether you want to be a slave to that word or not. So are you a slave Yuri?_

Yuri shakes his head vehemently.

 _Good boy._

"But I told myself that if I lost…if I didn't win the Grand Prix then I'd never be able to meet you in person. You wouldn't have wanted to meet me anyway. I don't deserve your attention." He clenches his tight chest.

The picture seems to move, and Victor's head tilts. _My little, Yuri. Do you really think I'd be speaking to you now if that were true_?

Yuri's grip on his chest weakens. "I guess not."

For the majority of the night, Yuri converses with the photo of Victor until it has learned things about him that not even his parents know. Yuri has never rambled on about himself to anyone before and with such ease. All the pain in his chest dissolves, and his heartbeat returns to a comfortable rhythm. By the time he realizes it, it's already after midnight. His eyelids droop, but Yuri fights off the fatigue, fearing that if he falls asleep, Victor will leave him. He doesn't want their time together to end. Not now. Not ever. He has spent a lifetime following the silver-haired beauty from behind a computer or a television screen. He's never had the courage to stand in the same room as the Russian prince. For this ethereal being to come to him in such an unorthodox means seems too prefect to risk losing. Yuri holds the picture close to his heart.

"Don't leave me," he begs. "Please, Victor. I don't want you to leave me alone ever again. I don't know what I'd do without you."

 _I won't. I promise._

Yuri stares at Victor's beaming expression. "Really?"

 _Of course. Go to sleep._

Yuri fights sleep for a bit longer, still unsure. But as Victor's genuine words sink into him, his eyelids fall over his eyes, and he gives himself over to his body's natural needs.

* * *

The next day, he awakens with a spring of confidence. Yuri pockets the photo and throws on his workout gear, tightening his shoelaces and brushing back his normally messy hair. With a splash of water over his face, he feels like a new man. He hurries out the door.

The air is fresh and cold, but the chill does little to sway his newfound jubilance. It's hard to believe all he needed was Victor's voice and encouragement, and now he feels so…rejuvenated.

Yuri arrives at the skating rink, Ice Castle Hasetsu, operated by his dear friends Yuko and Takeshi Nishigori.

"Yuri," Yuko opens her arms to hug him. He gives her a perfunctory hug back. Normally, this closeness would irritate him, but today he can forgive her. "What brings you here?" She asks that every time, and every time he responds with the same obvious answer:

"I'd like to skate, please."

Yuko's gaze lowers. "But I thought you said you were done skating."

"When did I say that?"

"Right when you got back home about a week ago. You seemed pretty serious about it this time."

This time? How many times had he threatened to quit the sport? A familiar tingle arises in his chest, but Yuri shoves a hand into the pocket with Victor's picture and forces a smile for her. "Forget what I said. Can I please skate?"

"Of course."

Just then, three balls of stubby legs and arms and colorful hair decorations rush into him. Yuri narrowly avoids falling to the ground and hitting his head on solid concrete as the triplets latch onto his legs like leeches to blood.

"Uncle Yuri, Uncle Yuri!" they chime in unison.

"Girls, leave him alone!" Yuko frowns at them.

Yuri peels himself from the triplets' surprising grasp to excuse himself and head toward the locker room. Inside, he opens a locker and sets down a bag containing his skates. He inspects the blades underneath to ensure they are sharp and absent any dents or scraps that might hinder his experience. He needs to be perfect today. His mood cannot falter. Victor is with him. He demands to see Yuri skate. Even if not for millions around the world, Yuri has his idol's crystal eyes. That's all he wants, for this is a performance belonging only to the two of them. Nobody else. Victor's smooth voice echoes, _I'm here. I won't leave. I promise._

Yuri removes the photo from his pocket. "Watch me, Victor. I promise I will make you proud." He nuzzles his face into the paper. "Don't leave you eyes from me for a second. You here?"

And the voice answers, _Never._

He inhales deeply, imagining the taste of Victor's shampoo. It's sweet and buttery, almost like roses but not quite. There's passion in the scent at first that masks something soft underneath, almost like a coconut.

The rink is bare, having been cleaned recently. The white ice is so shiny that Yuri can see his reflection. He almost feels guilty for stepping onto it. But the knowledge that this is for Victor swiftly extinguishes any negative feelings. Yuri lifts himself on the ice and glides across the smooth surface for a few rounds, warming up his body and calming his mindset.

Yuko stands at the edge of the rink, leaning over the side. "Do you want me to take those from you?" she asks, nodding to his glasses.

Yuri had almost forgotten he still had them on. He sets them down into her outstretched hand.

"Please watch," he says, and the expression on Yuko's face implies he means her, but he doesn't. This is between Yuri and his inspiration. The rest of the world morphs into a tunnel where Victor stands on the opposite side. A stretch of ice sits between them. The silver-haired beauty waves and flicks his hair as he swirls around and skates off.

A voice so tranquil and pure enters Yuri's ears, ridding him of any lasting doubt. _Yuri. Give it your best._

The tunnel begins to collapse, but Victor's silhouette never fades from view. As the walls around him crumble, Yuri propels himself forward, gracefully dodging falling stone and rock. A piece lands in his wake, and he swiftly kicks off the ground and spins four times, landing safely on the far side. Another few rocks fall into his path, and he leaps and spins again, landing as proficiently as the first time. He weaves and bends his body through the flurry of debris as Victor's silhouette grows in size and shape. Yuri's movements are sharp and refined. His heart beat never rises above its usual thumping as it pumps adrenaline through his body. Not even deadly obstacles like a deteriorating tunnel can keep them separate for long. In what may be the first in his life, Yuri knows he will succeed. It seems impossible or arrogant to someone else, but to him, it's confidence.

As the final few rocks drop in his path, forming a barrier that begins to cave in from all sides, Yuri seizes an opportunity to carve himself out of the darkness. He kicks off hard with one foot and drops into a sitting position with his other leg stretched out. The blade acts as a knife to slice through the rock with ease. His quick momentum helps hack away at the granite until light peels through the crevices. Yuri pushes himself off again and breaks through the wall to reach the other side. Victor stands there, arms wide open.

But before Yuri can embrace him, the music ends and someone starts clapping, breaking him out of his reverie. Yuri turns to Yuko's beaming face. Her cheeks are red with awe.

"That was so freaking cool, Yuri-kun!" Her hands slam against the side of the rink. The impact sends his glasses cluttering onto the ice. "It was just like watching Victor! Amazing! Absolutely _stunning_!"

Her complements continue to fly through the air until three heads pop up from behind the rink.

"Yuri's so fat though!"

"You need a girlfriend!"

"Are you still going to stop skating?"

"Enough, all of you!" their mother roars.

Yuri evens his breathing. "I think…I think this'll be my last performance." He bows respectfully. "Thank you for letting me use your rink, Yu-chan."

"Wait, what? But you just said you didn't want to retire."

"I said I wouldn't stop skating. But I think from now on, I want to do it just for myself." Well, technically for Victor, too. "Doing it for anybody else would defeat the experience. I realized recently that I stopped enjoying it a long time ago because I'd let people judge me. From now on, I want to be in control of my life."

And it's that attitude that lands Yuri in the worst situation of his entire life. For unbeknownst to him, his performance had been recorded by the triplets and spread across the Internet for all to see. The one thing he had sworn to keep for between Victor and himself had been taken and distributed. The copious amount of attention he gains grows too much to handle, and Yuri spends the next few days confined to his room.

He crawls beneath his covers, barricading anyone from entering with a locked door. Should someone come inside he'd do anything in his power to kick the invader out. Even though his stomach aches with hunger pains, Yuri doesn't leave. He doesn't want anybody to comfort him but his silver-haired prince. He presses his forehead to Victor's picture and pleads for him to come and take him away from this madness. The world can shrivel away as long as his has his idol to protect him and tell him everything is okay.

On the third day, after it seems like his hope may die along with his mental state, a voice jolts him awake.

 _Yuri._

"Victor!" He grabs the photo and wrinkles his face as tears well in his eyes. "Victor, thank God. I thought you left me. I'm so scared. They took a video of us, of me, and posted it everywhere. I don't know what to do."

 _Isn't it obvious, Yuri_?

He blinks. "What?"

 _You take back what they've stolen from you. You can't allow them to take what is yours._

"I don't understand. There's no way I can remove the video now after so many people have seen it already."

 _I'm not talking about the video, Yuri._ The photo seems to shift, and Victor's smile sinks into a scowl. Even such a profoundly disgusting expression fails to mar his beauty. _Get revenge on those who've ruined you. Who've ruined us._

Yuri's chest forms a knot until it feels like his heart is being crushed beneath an inescapable weight. "I-I could never."

 _Are you calling yourself a failure_?

"What? _No_! I…"

 _Are you a coward?_

Yuri shakes his head.

 _My precious, Yuri. No failure or coward would back down from this. If you truly love me, if you truly wish for us to be together, then you must eliminate those who seek to come between us. Who seek to_ control _us._

But Yuri's brain cannot wrap around the thought of doing something so horrific to the people he cares for. "They're my family."

 _Then what am I_? _Am I not worthy of you_?

" _No_ ," he says before the voice completes the sentence. "You're Victor. You're everything to me. Everything."

 _Do you love me, Yuri_?

The question hits him like a bullet. It's painful and precise. "Yes," he answers through trembling lips.

 _Then do what must be done._

An inexplicable force seizes him. Yuri's mind goes blank. He calmly slides the photo back underneath his pillow and shrugs away the blankets. Stepping off his bed, he collects something from the back of his closet. A pair of old skates he once wore as a child. The blades are rusted but still sharp. He presses his thumb against one to test its potency. A small line of blood draws across his skin. With enough force, this'll do well.

Yuri takes one skate and wedges it between the back of his pants and skin. He hides the other one beneath his long sleeve and clenches it in his hand. When a knock comes at the door, he swiftly stands and says, "Who is it?"

"Yuri-kun, it's your mother. Please come out. I've made your favorite. Pork cutlet bowl."

He shifts his weight. To think his mother who'd be the first. Yuri's grip tightens on the skate until his knuckles grow white. The blood in his face rises. His other hand reaches for the doorknob and turns it until it snaps unlocked. He creaks it open a sliver to peek through.

"Just leave it on the ground there," he says.

His mother's soft eyes grow solemn. "Yuri, please let me in."

"I can't do that, Mom." _If I do that, you'll_ …

"Yuri, you can't stay in there forever," his mother argues. "One of these days, you have to come out." Her face advances closer to the door, practically into it. She's too close. "Now please let me—"

" _No_ ," he shouts, startling her and nearly sending the hot bowl flying out of her grasp. "I told you to leave it!" He slams to the door so hard and fast, that neither of them could have expected what would transpire.

An agonizing scream sends shockwaves through him. Yuri forces the door open again and finds his mother writhing on the ground, her hands clapped over her face, and pork cutlet spread across the carpet.

Yuri drops the skate to the side and falls to his knees to help her. Blood trickles from the cracks in between her fingers, spilling onto the carpet and mixing in with the aroma of food. He can tell just by looking that she's holding together her nose. Should she remove her hands, her skin will peel off.

"Oh God! Oh God! MOM—!"

His father and sister come running, having heard the commotion. His sister screams upon seeing their mother drowning in her own blood. Yuri's father bends down and tries to console her, but he too is overwhelmed with immense fright and shock. All he can do is order Yuri's sister to call the ambulance.

The entire ordeal feels like a nightmare—a hellish encounter Yuri wishes he could awaken from. Emergency personnel arrive and hoist his mother to the ambulance. His father chooses to drive to the hospital, asking his sister to come along but ordering Yuri to stay behind. The look he gives his son is a mixture of disturbing and resentment. It's a look Yuri hasn't seen for years. He remembers a vivid memory of having dropped an expensive plate and watching it shatter across the floor. His father responded with striking his hand across Yuri's cheek and giving his son a long lecture. Yuri had repressed that memory and many like it so well with figure skating. But now it had found an excuse to return after a long hibernation.

Figure skating wasn't the true reason he made it through his childhood and adolescence.

It was Victor.

The first time Yuri witnessed the silver-haired prince skating at the junior championship, a sense of freedom poured into him. That freedom gave him the strength to pick up the sport as an escape. Victor's charismatic smile and graceful movements could rival an angel. Yuri had found his savior not in some divine, disembodied being, but in another human.

Yuri retreats into his room after cleaning up the mess caused by his impulsiveness. The smell of pork still lingers in the air, even after he has sprayed the area.

He falls onto his bed, sinking into the mattress. He wishes for nothing more than to sink so deep that he actually falls through it and into another dimension. At least then he'd be away from this chaotic existence.

A few hours later, Yuri hears the familiar sound of the front door open and footsteps enter the house. One pair of footsteps is loud and slow, signifying his father, and the other is short and soft, signifying his sister. No third pair of footsteps. Tightness swells in his chest as a knock comes at his bedroom door.

"Yuri," his father's hoarse voice pries through the door, making his heart lurch. "I need to talk to you."

Yuri hesitates.

His father pounds on the door, and Yuri worries the hinges might break off. "Yuri! Open the damn door. _Now_!"

Yuri slides off his bed and reaches for the doorknob. He turns it until it unlocks. All of a sudden, a great force bursts through, and his father's hand snatches his collar before Yuri even has time to process what's going on.

"What the fuck did you do?" he snaps, shaking his son. "Because of your little tantrum, your mother almost lost her nose, and now she has to spend the next few days in the hospital to make sure she can still breathe through it. Do you know what you have done? Do you know what this is going to cost me? _Do_ you?" He shakes Yuri with even more force.

Yuri's head grows foggy from the shaking and the increasing tightness in his chest. It feels as if someone is squeezing him, preventing him from inhaling deeply. His fingers and toes go numb. A prickling sensation crawls up his back. His father's still yelling at him, his face red and puffy, but Yuri can't hear him for whatever reason. Has he gone deaf? It isn't until his father strikes him and a stinging pain burns his cheek does Yuri snap back into reality. He's on the ground with one hand rubbing the side of his face. Something glimmers in his peripheral vision. It's the one of the old skates he wore as a child hiding among a pile of clothes and skating magazines.

His father reaches for him. "Get up, you good for no—" The words are cut off by a gurgling sound that erupts from the back of his throat. Yuri's father drops to his knees and his hand instinctively clasp his neck where a thick laceration has pierced his skin and flesh and severed his jugular vein. As hot blood oozes from the cut, Yuri crawls back toward the wall and releases his hold around the skate. His mouth gaps open watching his father swing his arm blindly through the air for several excruciating moments before his body slumps forward, motionless.

A scream reverberates through the entire house. Yuri first mistakes it for his own, but it's too high-pitched to belong to him. He follows the scream to a figure standing at the doorway. His sister has her hands clapped over her mouth. Her bulging eyes stare down at her father's corpse.

"Mari."

She falls back and scrambles into the kitchen. Yuri follows and finds her picking up the phone. Fear consumes him. He's upon her before she can dial the numbers to call the police. His fingers coil around her neck like a python and his weight slams her to the floor, cracking the back of her head against the tile.

Yuri digs his nails into her skin as she claws his face to try and force him off to no avail. Her legs flail and kick him pathetically. Yuri leans all his weight and anguish onto her. His sister's face grows from red to blue. The color in her eyes wanes. Foamy saliva slips down the side of her mouth. Yuri shuts his eyes as the life drifts out of her. Soon, nothing but a dead body rests beneath him.

Yuri sits up and rolls off the corpse. His heart pounds, and he dabs sweat from his forehead. He can still feel the warmth of her skin between his fingers. They tremble uncontrollably. A wave of unprecedented emotions crashes over him, drenching him in a blanket of uncertainty. He stands and ambles back to his room where his father's body remains slumped. Yuri crawls into bed and pulls the covers over his head. The photo of Victor finds its way into his arms. He holds his idol close.

A voice so serene and forgiving whispers, _It's okay, Yuri. I'm here. I'll always be here for you._

A soft smile crawls up Yuri's face and sleep comes more naturally to him than it had ever before.


	2. Chapter 2

2\. Victor - I

* * *

 **A/N** : Happy Friday the 13th. The official cover for this story is up. Come find me on tumblr: vampiregrose. I post weird shit. Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

Victor combs his hair through with his fingers as he replays the video over for the fourth time in a row. It takes a meticulous mind, body, and soul to imitate his routine so faithfully. And this one has a potbelly to weigh him down. But, despite the hindrance to his physique, his performance doesn't suffer.

The Russian rises from his seat and presses a saved contact on his phone. He brings the device to his ear. It rings a couple of times before someone picks up on the other line.

"What is it, Victor?"

"Hello to you too, Yakov." He scratches Makkachin on the head, and the poodle responds by licking his hand. "I wanted to tell you that I've decided to take time off this season."

A brief silence wedges between them, and Victor wonders if the line has somehow been cut off due to poor reception.

"WH _AAAH_ T?" Yakov snaps. "What do you mean you're taking time off? What could you possibly be interested in during such an important year? You literally just won your fifth championship. Don't tell me you've gotten someone pregnant!"

"No," Victor reassures under a chuckle. "I just had this epiphany that I should take some time for myself for a season. Rest assured Yakov. I'll be back next season in better form than ever. But, for now, I'd like to do something for myself."

"What the hell do you have in mind?"

A crooked smile forms across his face. "That's a secret." He swiftly ends the call before his coach can speak. When the phone rings a few seconds later, Victor puts it to silent and pockets the device. His eyes fall onto his poodle. "How do you feel about going to Japan, Makkachin?"

The dog cocks its head to the side and barks. Victor ruffles Makkachin's fluffy ears.

"I'll take that as a yes."

The Russian has been to Japan before but only for business and never for pleasure. He can already feel the bubbling hot spring water on his skin, purifying him and casting away any worrying thoughts that may seep into his mind. He can already taste the fresh, homemade sushi and ramen on his lips. He envisions cherry blossom petals lining the streets even though it's the dead of winter. Everything about Japan gives him a sense of welcoming.

And it's just about to feel even more welcoming.

Yuri Katsuki, twenty-three years old. He's quite possibly the only person in the entire world able to captivate audiences as well as Victor Nikiforov, despite being at least ten or twenty pounds over the preferred weight limit for figure skaters. But the feelings that swell within Victor aren't ones of jealousy or contempt. They are of excitement, jubilance, and wonder. Victor has never experienced such a flurry of emotions in such close succession before.

So he packs his suitcase to the brim with clothes upon clothes. He struggles with the zipper for a good while until it finally submits to his stubbornness.

The Russian books the soonest flight. Later in the evening, he finds himself on a plane designated to Saga, Japan.

Unable to bring Makkachin into the cabin, Victor suffices with a stuffed toy that resembles his poodle almost too well. The only difference is that the poodle sitting in his hands is an inanimate object.

He breathes in the toy's scent for comfort and strength. Somehow, his nerves have spiked throughout this plane ride. The closer the aircraft draws toward the continent, the more Victor's heart lurches and the more his mind fills with thoughts: What will Yuri Katsuki be like? Will he like him? Will he accept him? Will he willingly go along with the plan Victor has composed? The questions dance around in his brain the entire flight. By the time the plane has touched down in the foreign country, Victor has almost forgotten his real mission.

The city streets are not for the faint of heart. He narrowly avoids being trampled and run over by cars. He pulls Makkachin close to him by the leash as he navigates scores of people and unreadable street signs. Frustration builds within the Russian as he finds himself crossing the same streets two or three times. He's reduced to asking strangers. Given that English happens to be the universal language, Victor asks if anybody has at least some grasp of it. A couple people do and point him in the correct direction.

It seems like an eternity until Victor reaches the entrance to a hot springs called _Yu-topia Katsuki_. The sign's title is in English. He takes another quick glance or two at the directions and the sign. They match. Victor enters the residency, tightening Makkachin's leash.

"Hello?" he says in English. "Is anybody here?"

He would have expected a hot spring, particularly the only once within this prefecture, to have more revenue. It's dead.

Victor wonders if he may have misread the sign or if his directions had somehow been false.

He makes one more attempt. "Hello?"

Just as he's about to step back outside, a figure comes out from the backroom. Victor jumps, startled as a young man with dark hair and eyes comes into the light. He's average height, a few inches shorter than the Russian, and gaunter than he appeared in the video. Cameras have a habit of adding pounds.

"Yuri Katsuki?"

The young man narrows his eyes. "Yes?" His accent squeezes through, but his pronunciation far exceeds what Victor had expected.

"I'm Victor Nikiforov," he says with a smile and composes himself to look more presentable. "Starting today, I'm going to be your coach."

The Japanese man blinks. Then he scratches his head and lowers his gaze to the floor. "Umm, is this a joke?"

"What?"

Makkachin growls. He's not normally a growler.

"Well, how do I know you're the real deal? What credentials do you have? You could be an imposter."

A wave of insulting fury crashes over Victor, but he doesn't let his appeal change. If he's learned anything from figure skating and performing in front of millions, it's that he must keep his true emotions encased in a chest. Whatever he's feeling cannot interrupt his public image for fear that he may be tarnished. The same rules apply now while standing in front of this stranger. "I believe you made a video of yourself skating my most recent routine. Am I wrong?"

Yuri shrugs. "Maybe. I don't really remember."

The Russian purses his lips and pulls out his phone from his pocket. He scrolls through the site where he originally found the video and shows it to the younger man. "Isn't this you?"

Yuri examines the clip. His expression softens upon the video's completion. "Oh, that. I forgot that was on there." As if controlled by puppet strings, he idly ambles toward the backroom. "This way. I need to test you to ensure you are who you say you are." He disappears behind the corner.

Victor surveys the vicinity. As the only hot springs in this prefecture, one would think this business would be thriving. But the place is dead, seemingly abandoned. He notes a few cobwebs and dust on the windows as he follows the younger man into the backroom.

Makkachin pulls on the leash and whines. Victor tugs, but the poodle won't comply. His dark eyes stare up at him in some pathetic attempt to stop him.

Victor kneels down and pats his head. "What's wrong boy?" Makkachin licks his face. "Maybe I should leave you here." He wraps the leash around a table leg. With another pat, he leaves the canine whining and heads for the backroom where Yuri has yet to remerge from.

He barely takes a step around the corner before a great force comes flying at him and darkness consumes his world. The faint sound of Makkachin's incessant barking enters his ears. And all Victor wishes is that he had listened to his poodle's warning.

* * *

The taste of metal sits on his tongue. The sharpening of steel rings in his ears. The smell of rotten meat invades his nose. A searing pain like the worst hangover in existence clouds his thoughts. Victor knows before his eyes open that he is somewhere he shouldn't be—somewhere dark and otherworldly, like he has fallen in hell's void.

Despite having no inkling of his surroundings, Victor knows he's been tied down to a makeshift gurney, perhaps a table, and has been stripped entirely of his clothes.

All of a sudden, a fierce light blinds him. His eyes sting and shut. The sound of sharpening steel ends and footsteps resonate through the room. A chill runs down his spine. A silhouette blocks the light from reducing his eyes to watery mush through his eyelids. Victor squints them open.

The silhouette advances until his eyes adjust enough to identify Yuri Katuski hovering over him with a glazed look in his eyes. He fiddles with something in between his fingers. It's one of Victor's skates.

"You're awake," Yuri says with relief. "I thought that hit might have killed you. That's good. I'm glad that you survived. I'll need you to be completely honest and conscious during the interrogation process."

"Interrogation?" Victor shakes his head. "What are you saying?"

Yuri dips his head and runs a finger across the skate's blade. "Well, I'm still not sure you're Victor Nikiforov. He's so famous with the public that anyone can throw on pounds of makeup or spend thousands of dollars on plastic surgery to look like him. I've only ever seen Victor on TV, the Internet, and in pictures. It's impossible for me to know if you're really him without interrogating you first."

"L-look at my passport!" Victor's voice trills, and Yuri's brow furrows. He clears his throat. "Look at it. I _am_ Victor Nikiforov. I swear!"

But Yuri doesn't budge. "Anybody can change their name. Passports, licenses, even birth certificates don't mean anything."

Sweat permeates from the Russian's forehead and underarms. His silver hair sticks to his skin. The heat from the light and the lack of air within the confined darkness begins to have an affect on him. He licks his lips. Unable to think of any other option, he says, "Okay. Ask me anything. Where I was born. Raised. My parents' names and their histories. Go ahead."

Yuri stops stroking the blade and his dark eyes meet the Russian's. "No. Questions associated with a famous person's history can be found all over the Internet. For all I know, you could've researched Victor's life until you memorized it. This won't be that kind of interrogation." He lowers the skate and gingerly slides the blade across Victor's naked thigh.

The Russian starts piecing things together and struggles with his bonds. The rope digging into his wrists and ankles is stronger than him. Following a few futile attempts to free himself, he relaxes in defeat. Tears fill his vision but the hot light swiftly evaporates them before they fall.

Yuri's dark eyes watch him intently. "I'll begin with a simple question: Why did you come to Japan?"

"To coach you."

The blade sinks into his flesh, and Victor winces. A sharp pain hits the sensitive skin on his upper thigh. Just when he thinks it won't stop, Yuri lifts the skate from the wound. Hot blood flows down the Russian's loins.

"Why did you come here?" he repeats.

"I swear, it's to coach you!"

Yuri's expression darkens. "You swear?"

Victor nods.

Yuri slices a deep stab into the wound, opening it further until Victor doesn't only see blood but gooey, orange-colored muscle. His body arches. His insides practically push the scream from his mouth, releasing it so loudly that it causes a harsh ringing in his ears. Another swift slash severs a piece from his leg. It slips off Victor, exposing his hypodermis.

Yuri collects it from the floor, gingerly picking it up without hesitation as if he's picking up a pen or a sheet of paper. "It's strange. I thought you'd be really hard to cut because of your muscular build, but somehow I think…" A wry smile forms on his face. "I think I've gotten better at this. It took a lot of practice. The other skates I used didn't cut as well as these do. I've had them since I was a little kid, so I guess it makes sense. Dad told me to get rid of them, but I never did. I always thought they'd help me find myself. Isn't that what every kid goes through? A period of uncertainty? Most people never find out what they're good at. I thought it was figure skating, but apparently it isn't." Yuri lowers his head, moving the piece of flesh around in his hands until his fingers have been painted red. His eyes fixate on it to a morbid degree before they wander to Victor's. "Say, do you think if I dig a little deeper, I'll find out?"

If that's only a fraction of what is to come, Victor knows his mental state won't last for much longer. He shakes his head. "Please, Yuri. Don't."

"Don't?" He sounds genuinely confused.

"You don't want this."

Yuri's eyes narrow, and his face wrinkles into a scowl. "How do you know what I want? You don't know me."

A shudder runs through his body as the stinging ache around his loins morphs into numbness. Victor's adrenaline has kicked in and started to ease the pain. "You can't," he whispers.

"I can't? I can't what? Are you trying to be like my father?" He steps away and melts into the blackness for a few tense minutes before returning with something else in his hands. It looks like a piece of paper. His soaked hands taint it, but Yuri doesn't seem to care or pay too much attention. "The real Victor knows me better than anyone. He's seen me at my highs. He's seen me at my lows. He doesn't judge me." His cheek and neck flush. "He's everything to me. I love him more than my own family."

Yuri turns over the piece of paper to reveal a picture of Victor smiling and waving after winning his fourth championship. He only remembers which championship because of his outfit: a red costume with purple trim. It seemed so long ago.

"The real Victor knows my favorite food. Do you?"

Victor isn't sure what to say. His mouth hangs open in some feeble attempt to answer.

Yuri nods with a mirthless smile. "I thought so." He folds the paper several times and pockets it before hovering over Victor's face. "Next question: Why did you decide to coach me? What benefit do you have?" He has the skate in his hand again. The light obscures his eyes slightly, making it difficult for Victor to deduce where his next attack might be.

When Victor hesitates, Yuri strikes him in the chest. The puncture wound hits a thin layer of skin over a rib and the pick of his skate scraps against the bone. He begins sawing in earnest. He seems to have every intention of breaking it.

"The afterparty!" Victor blurts out.

Yuri stops. "What?"

"The afterparty last year," Victor gasps. His heart thunders in his chest. His mind swims, growing foggy from the trauma. Thankfully, the place where Yuri had struck him is located on his right side. "At the Grand Prix afterparty you asked me to come here and become your coach."

The younger man lowers his weapon. "I don't recall ever speaking to you during the afterparty."

"You were drunk."

Yuri's leers, and Victor worries he may have insulted him.

"We had a dance off," Victor explains. "Everyone was there. You, me, and even Christopher Giacometti. I have proof. Check my phone."

Yuri turns his head. The light enters his eyes. Some sliver of humanity seems to crawl back into him upon listening to Victor's words. "Where did you last leave it?" he asks.

Victor grimaces as his adrenaline rush wavers and the lingering pain in both his chest and thigh build up. "In…in the back pocket of my jeans." He gestures with his head but instantly regrets it. He has no inkling of where Yuri has stashed his clothes or whether the younger man even kept his belongings. And the gesture seems like an order. He's at Yuri's mercy.

Yuri ambles away and out of sight again. Victor listens to footsteps ascending a staircase and walk across higher ground. He deduces one thing: he's in the basement.

Beneath the aroma of fresh blood, Victor catches another whiff of rotting meat. Someone's left food down here for too long. The stench irritates his nose, irritating his eyes. They begin to water as the footsteps descend the stairs. Yuri's face appears, looking like a floating head in the darkness. He's busy scrolling through Victor's phone for evidence of his drunken stupor. Something clenches between the fingers in his other hand, but Victor can't tell what it is. All he can do is wait and watch the younger man's brows furrow and eyes narrow on occasion. Each time his expression grows irritated, Victor's heart stutters and his spine chills. The rise and fall of emotion on Yuri's face seems eternal. Victor might die of blood loss before they exchange any more words.

Finally, Yuri says, "Why did you take this?" He shows a photo of himself on a stripper pole. "Are you some kind of sick pervert?"

"No," Victor says shrilly. "I was there. We even danced together. Keeping scrolling."

Yuri's mouth twitches. "Are you ordering me?"

Victor presses his lips together sheepishly.

The younger man's eyes drift back to the phone screen. Victor watches in cold silence as Yuri's thumb slides right every second or so. His expression remains dull and uninterested until something appears on the screen and makes his eyeballs widen so great that they look like they're about to fall out. His mouth drops and hangs. The expression on Yuri's face means he has found evidence of their previous encounter. A sliver of hope burrows into Victor's heart, calming its erratic beating just enough that he doesn't have to worry about dying from a heart attack. Although, a heart attack would be a far more merciful death than what the younger man possibly has planned for him.

Yuri composes himself and licks his lips. He places the phone down somewhere in the dark, mumbling nonsense as he does so. While his back is turned, Victor attempts to wiggle out of his restraints again to no avail.

A loud slapping sound reverberates through the room, startling the Russian. Beyond the bright light, he makes out Yuri's figure viciously hitting his face with his own hand. The violent hits have an affect on Victor. His spine tingles as if a serpent is slithering under his skin. His chest tightens to a near suffocating degree. He can feel every hit like they're his own.

An agonizing wail bursts from the younger man's throat. He stumbles from side to side, falling into things and breaking or toppling over objects in his way. Yuri doesn't care to pick anything up. He drops to the floor near the table. His eyes are filled with tears, and his nose is red. Snot streams down to his lips. Victor has to wonder what he's held captive by. Is it Japan's figure skating representative or some wallowing child trapped in an adult man's body?

"S-sorry," Yuri sniffs beneath a higher-pitched voice. "I'm _so_ sorry."

Victor blinks.

Yuri leans forward and drops his head the farthest it can go, until his forehead slaps the concrete. "Don't hate me. P-please, forgive me!"

The Russian raises his head to peer over the edge of the table. Yuri doesn't move from his spot and continues sniffing and pleading for forgiveness. This is his only chance.

"I'll forgive if you release me from these bonds," Victor says calmly. In his mind, he screams the words.

Yuri lifts his head. "But…after what I've done. How can I let you go in your condition?"

Victor forces a thoughtful smile. "I'm fine. I promise."

Yuri shakes his head. "No, I can't let you be seen like this. You need me to take care of you." He jumps to his feet. "Let me take care of you, Victor because I..." His face flares. "I love you!"

The Russian's world crumbles into a million pieces. The small opening of escape he was given has left. A sickening feeling swells within his stomach and threatens to pour out like vomit. He swallows it down.

"I-I know it's sudden," Yuri says, waving his hands in front of him. His face is still as red as ever. "But if you give me a chance, I swear I'll make you reconsider. Just give me a second chance. You'll be safe here with me."

 _Safe_? Victor could laugh at such a preposterous and obviously ridiculous claim. But if he doesn't play along, he'll surely lose a lot more than a few pieces of torn flesh. "Okay," he breathes, fighting the stinging ache in his chest and thigh. "I'll give you a chance."

Yuri beams. "Thank you, Victor! Really. Thank you." With that said, he rushes to the Russian's side and wraps his arms around Victor's neck. The impact is so quick and unexpected that Victor thinks he might be decapitated. He catches the faint smell of Yuri's shampoo. Ironically, it smells of roses—his favorite flower ever since he can remember. Their fragrance reminds him of past lovers, current lovers, and future lovers. He'd never associate that smell with the likes of a man such as Yuri Katsuki. All this time, Victor had imagined he'd smell of something dull and conservative.

"Thank you," Yuri sounds genuinely relieved. He's like a child who has been forgiven by his parent for breaking a precious vase.

Victor's eyelids relax. Fatigue begins to grip him—coaxing him to close his eyes for good. If only he weren't tied to a table and at the mercy of a crazed fan, then he'd accept sleep's alluring pull. But, before he can be consumed by his body's natural desires, a thought falls into his head.

"Yuri," he whispers. "Can I ask for something else instead?" If freedom is impossible, at least he can spend his confinement in the presence of familiar company.

Yuri releases his hold around Victor's head. His gaze is submissive, a complete contrast to what he had produced not even five minutes ago. It's like looking at another person entirely. "Yes. Anything."

"I'd like to see my dog."

The face Yuri responds with is one of unquestionable horror. It's proof enough of what has become of Makkachin. There's no need for words.

Victor's insides churn. His chest feels heavy. He struggles against his bonds. If only he had the strength to break them and choke the younger man. A tempest of anger and guilt spirals within. He can see Yuri's pale face become red and then purple. He can see the foam pour out of his mouth. He can see his eyes roll to the back of his head.

Instead, all Victor can do is weep.

Because no matter what he says, does, or thinks, none of it will resurrect Makkachin.


	3. Chapter 3

3\. Yuri - II

It has been the best weekend in Yuri Katsuki's life. An unforgettable weekend altogether. So much has happened that he debates whether he should journal everything so he has visual proof to hold on to. But then he recoils. Thinking practically, it's best if he stores all his emotions in the only place nobody can ever reach—his mind.

He spends his days skating and his nights tending to Victor, who he's kept safe in a makeshift bedroom with a futan that he created in his basement for his silver-haired prince. Every day he returns home from the rink jovial, ready to tell Victor how much he's improved.

Yuri compares it to his childhood. He'd try and tell his parents about how he intended to pursue figure skating as a profession. His father was heavily against the idea. How can anyone make a decent living without being a protégé or having connections in the industry? His mother said Yuri could follow whatever dreams he desired. But her words always came out through a shaking voice, as if she forced herself to believe them. There was no trust or assurance behind her word.

But there was behind Victor's words. That's why Yuri wants to do whatever he can to accommodate his silver-haired prince. Today, he has Victor's favorite food—sweet potato shōchū. Yuri had done well to buy the best brand he could find. He reads the labels with a close eye. Error cannot be accepted. The lower the quality, the more likely Victor will be dissatisfied. By the time he finds the perfect bottle, a smile tugs at his face. Yuri squeals in anticipation.

He pulls his hood over his head and returns home with the bottle tucked away in a paper bag he has stashed underneath his arm. He hides his stash from everyone he passes. Nobody except Victor's crystal orbs may look upon his gift. This gift may be the catalyst to quelling any animosity left between them.

Once home, he pours two wine glasses, watching the liquor fizzle almost to the rim. To his understanding, Yuri has never been a heavy drinker, but it's rude to refuse alcohol while hosting. Besides, if Victor sees that he's willing to have a taste, then that might help Yuri gain more of his favor. He is careful not to make one glass fuller than the other. They both must be of equal measure.

Satisfied, Yuri takes the glasses down into the basement to share with Victor. He turns on a nearby light with his elbow at the top of the stairs, cringing when he thinks the wine glasses might spill. He sighs in relief when they don't. It would have been devastating to turn around and waste more of Victor's precious shōchū. He doesn't want to keep his prince waiting any longer than he has.

"Victor," Yuri croaks, clearing his throat. "Victor, I've brought something for you. Look." He approaches the door and can see Victor's silhouette in the corner, faced away from him.

Victor slowly turns around.

Yuri smiles. "I have your favorite—sweet potato shōchū. Would you like to share it?"

Victor's head rises, and Yuri's heart skips when those crystal orbs meet his. God, he wants to steal them away and pocket them. He wants to bring them to the rink someday and let them watch a private showing of his performance. Victor's attention is enough to tighten his loins.

Yuri places Victor's glass through the door and gingerly onto the ground. "Here you go. I hope it's to your liking. I worked really hard to find the best one they had." His hand claps over his mouth. _Stupid_! _Why would you tell him that_? _This was supposed to be a surprise_! An urge to hit himself builds in his stomach. But he can't show that side of himself to Victor again. Instead, he digs his nails into his opposite arm until they pierce the skin. _Breathe_. He inhales and exhales.

Victor crawls closer to inspect what Yuri has brought for him. His silver bangs drip over his eyes. Even in the dim light, the Russian is beautiful. Yuri can hardly fathom how such an ethereal being would ever end up at his doorstep let alone as his roommate. He must be dreaming. Or dead. Or possibly both. To think that figure skating's finest performer—the epitome of the sport—is here almost brings Yuri to tears.

Victor takes the glass from the floor and brings the rim to his nose first, smelling the drink. Yuri careful analyzes any small reaction that may give off a sense of disgust.

The Russian sips it and flashes a thoughtful smile. "It's good."

All the tension in Yuri's body evaporates. He falls forward but catches himself before his face hits the ground. "Really?" he asks, looking back up.

Victor nods.

"I'm glad."

"Thank you."

"How are your wounds?" Yuri nods to the bandages around Victor's abdomen and thigh. He had done his best to clean the wounds to prevent infection. But the bandages are reminders for the horrible mistake he had made. A sting pierces his chest.

"Better," Victor replies.

Yuri hops to his feet and rushes over to a nearby table where he has kept most of Victor's belongings safe. He also keeps a first aid kit stored in this area. He opens the box and removes some extra bandages and distilled water. It's the best medicine for the time being. He's already given Victor a sufficient amount of painkillers today.

"Are you almost done?"

Victor takes that last few gulps of shōchū and places the glass down on the other side of the door.

Yuri takes the glass and places his half-empty one together with it on the table. He returns to Victor's door. "Turn around. I have to change your bandages." When Victor obeys, Yuri unlocks the door, sliding the keys into his back pocket. Despite his utmost trust in his silver-haired prince, there's always that sliver of doubt polluting his mind. He locks the door behind him to ensure nothing unorthodox might occur. "Okay, you can turn around."

Victor turns back around so he's facing him. He eyes are hidden beneath his bangs. Yuri has an urge to push his hair aside to see them, but he decides that may be too forward for now. There's still trust that needs to build and wounds that need to heal.

Yuri gingerly pulls the bandages off. The salve he had used as a disinfectant has become sticky, and the wounds have scabbed over. He tugs, and Victor releases a grunt.

"S-sorry."

"It's okay."

He removes the bandage more and notices the crusty yellow and brownish coloration beneath. A grimace crosses his face. There's a quick solution, but it'll be undoubtedly remorseless. "The scab is stuck to the bandage. I can remove it but…this might hurt."

Victor curls his hands into fists and inhales deeply. "Go ahead."

Yuri tugs the bandage off in one go, and the wound on the Russian's chest bleeds as the scab peels off with the bandage. The open laceration is one of two problem areas that mar his prince's beauty. And both are because of Yuri's impulsiveness.

Victor's muscles go taut in response to the upper layer of hard skin being unintentionally removed. Yuri can feel his pain looking at the inside of Victor, where he thinks he sees a rib bone. Yuri presses his lips together as he lathers the open wound with the distilled water and then wraps new bandages around it to secure the disinfectant.

He sighs in relief. "One down." And then turns his attention onto Victor's thigh. The same result occurs, and he does his utmost best to comfort his prince through soft whispers of apology and with meticulous hands. When he's finally done with both he considers kissing them. But then he shakes his head. _No, what's wrong with you_? _Victor didn't ask you to. Don't be stupid._ He scratches his irritated arm, sinking his nails into his skin until the pain diverts his imprudent thoughts.

"Are you hungry?" Yuri asks.

Victor lifts his head. His crystal orbs threaten to melt Yuri's body into a puddle on the floor. "I'm fine for now."

"Do you need to use the bathroom?"

Victor shakes his head.

Yuri purses his lips. "What about some water to help the shōchū?"

"Yuri," the Russian interjects with a husky yet honest tone in his accent. "Can I watch you skate?"

Yuri blinks. "Wait, so you still want to be my coach after…?" He lowers his gaze and searches for better words to use. His eyes fall onto the bandages, and his chest aches. "After what's happened?"

"Yes," Victor breathes.

Yuri's heart lurches. All the blood rushes to his cheeks. "I…I don't know if you'll like what I have."

Although he's been practicing more than ever, Yuri cannot fathom being ready for Victor's eyes. It's like they're about have their first sexual encounter. His heart pounds, and he fumbles over his words the longer he looks into those crystal eyes. Or rather, the more they look at him—through him. It's as if they are analyzing every word he thinks about saying or wishes to say before the words reach beyond his throat.

But Victor doesn't seem fazed. "I want to see you."

The younger man shrinks back. "Umm, I guess I could."

"Great," Victor says with a smile. God, he's radiant. Not even the angelic beings that populate heaven can compare to him. Despite what Yuri's done to mar his exquisiteness, Victor will always be beautiful. "Can we go now?"

But something hits Yuri before he can say yes. It's a knot that develops in his stomach and starts turning, picking up whatever it can until it's grown so massive that he thinks his insides will explode. The knot doesn't intend on extinguishing unless Yuri says what it wants him to say.

He swallows hard. "I…will go, and I'll record myself for you."

The smile on Victor's face dissolves. Yuri had feared this reaction. "Why can't I come?"

"Because you need to stay here. You'll be safe. Let me take care of you until you heal completely."

Victor leans forward. "Please, Yuri," he begs. "Please let me see you."

But the knot pulses, sending an electric current down the younger man's spine that causes him to wince. He clenches his hands into fists and then reaches for the keys. He quickly unlocks the door and steps out, making sure to lock it behind him.

Victor lurches forward but comes up just short of leaving. Yuri cannot let him leave—for if the world sees what he has done to his prince, the world will never accept someone as incompetent as Yuri Katsuki. And no entertainer, whose life revolves around pleasing the masses, can ever excuse incompetence. Yuri reminds himself this while Victor continues begging to let him come with. He finds some resolve and hurries out of the basement, taking what remains of the shōchū with him. He returns upstairs and stores in in the refrigerator. He leans against the appliance and trickles down to the floor like water. Hiking his knees to his chest and burying his face into his knees, he chants a familiar mantra in his head:

 _I will be the most beautiful pork cutlet bowl. Just you wait, Victor._

He imagines skating through that tunnel again and seeing his silver-haired prince, standing on the far end waiting for him. Yuri repeats the moves and steps and jumps until they've leeched his brain of anything else. Only one person fills his thoughts. That one person is his reason for living still. Without Victor Nikiforov, there's no Yuri Katsuki.

 _Yuri_.

He raises his head and surveys the kitchen. For a moment, Yuri thinks Victor may have somehow left his makeshift room but the basement door remains closed. The source of this voice derives from elsewhere.

Yuri stands and saunters into his bedroom where he slides the picture of Victor out from underneath his pillow. In the few days since the real Victor's stay, Yuri had abandoned his other self.

 _What are you doing, Yuri? Why won't you speaking to me anymore?_

But Yuri shakes his head. "I don't understand. You're with me right now. You're living in my house. Why do you feel the need to continue talking through a picture?"

The photo manifests until Victor's crystal orbs darken into a deep gray coloration. _You've forgotten me._

"No."

 _You said you love me._

"I do."

 _You said you'd do anything for me._

"I will."

 _You promised to eliminate anyone who seeks to come between us. Yet you've allowed an outsider to do just that._

"I…" This time he has no valid answer.

 _Liar._

His eyes bulge.

 _Traitor._

"No!" Yuri says shrilly. His voice is too meek to make a noticeable difference. "That's not."

The picture contorts and the color in Victor's eyes darkens so deeply that it fills the sclera. Then it overflows like a flood of black tears.

 _Die._

The knot in his stomach swells to the point that Yuri fears it might explode at any given moment. His heart pounds against his ribcage. A bead of cold sweat trickles down the nape of his neck and stains his collar. He hunches forward and feels the knot burst. Pain overflows him like a poisonous cloud that invades his body. Yuri can't breathe. He sinks to the floor in a fetal position, clenching his stomach. Screams escape his mouth. The pain thickens until it numbs every extremity. It's merciless. Consuming. Devouring. Digesting him. Yuri feels like his body has devolved into a messy puddle on the floor of his room.

His eyes shut and the last thing he sees is the picture of Victor watching him with disgust.

* * *

An immense pressure encompasses him, and Yuri assumes this may be an early sign of Death's arms reaching out to embrace him. The encroaching light sits above. He extends a hand to touch it.

Something warm soaks his fingers. A metallic odor clogs his nostrils. Yuri squints his eyes open and realizes he's lying on the ground of the rink. His extended hand belongs to a child's. Someone hovers above him, pointing and laughing at his fragile state.

"Takeshi, you're so mean!"

A childish Yuko rushes into Yuri's sight. "Yu-kun. Are you alright?" Her eyes are wide with concern. "You hit you're head."

Yuri slides his hand over the pulsating pain in his head and detects a gash on the back of his cranium. His fingers trace the open wound and feel a flap of skin hanging off. All of a sudden, he breaks into a wail.

Yuko leers at Takeshi. "See what you've done?"

"He's just being a pussy," Takeshi argues.

Yuko reaches down to lift Yuri up. She tells him to bend forward so that she can inspect his injury. One hand slaps to her mouth when she sees the level of damage he's sustained. She jerks her head back to Takeshi, who's laughing abruptly stops. His face is equally as horrified.

"Get my dad. _Now_!"

Takeshi races out of view.

The room starts to spin. The pulsing in Yuri's head is reminiscent of a heartbeat. Blood seeps into the back of his collar. His vision blurs. Before now, he's always had twenty-twenty vision. He tries blinking away the fogginess to no avail. Why did this happen?

Takeshi returns with Yuko's father.

That's why.

A vortex of ire builds within him. Yuri feels like a ragdoll as arms carry him into an ambulance. His vision still blurred. Although, the doctor rules it an accident, Yuri knows Takeshi meant to push him. He'll always use Yuri's small and frail size to his domineering advantage because he knows Yuri would never fight back. He knows Yuri couldn't fight back.

Following that, Yuri's sight never fully recovers. The glasses act as another reminder of his suffering at Takeshi's hands and his parents' blindness to what really had happened.

That isn't the only incident either. Despite needing stitches to keep his skin attached, Takeshi showed little remorse, insisting Yuri brought the pain on himself. If he tried harder to fend him off, then Takeshi would show respect. But, according to him, Yuri plays victim. He cries in order to gain Yuko's affections. And whenever Yuko attends to Yuri, Takeshi has more reason to pick on him.

"You just love to play innocent," Takeshi spats one day after punching Yuri in the face and knocking him down. His glasses clatter against the gravel.

Yuri wipes away the blood running from his aching nose. He gropes around the ground blindly.

Takeshi's blurred figure walks over and stomps on what could only be Yuri's glasses. Then he grabs the smaller kid by the shirt. "By the way, stay away from Yuko. Quit getting her involved in your bullshit. Next time I'll _really_ teach you a lesson." He throws him back into the dirt and stalks off in the opposite direction.

All Yuri can do is cry and tend to his bloody nose.

But the fiery vortex grows...

Another day, Yuko approaches him and makes note of his swollen nose and new glasses. "Did Takeshi hit you?"

Yuri waves it off. "N-no, I fell."

Yuko stares. "Yuri, if he's still bullying you, you can tell me." She raises a hand to his shoulder. "We're friends."

He shakes his head. He shouldn't say it.

"I promise I won't tell anybody." Yuko's eyes are gentle and motherly. It's diificult to sense any disloyalty within them.

Yuri clenches his hands into fists. His body starts to shake. Tears fill his eyes, staining his new glasses.

Yuko pulls him into a hug. "It's okay. I'm here." When she recoils, she looks at him with a stern expression. "Now tell me. Is he?"

Yuri nods once.

"Don't worry. I won't let anything happen to you." She takes his pinky finger in hers. "Pinky swear." Her smile is honest.

Warmth fills his cheeks.

Yuko giggles. "Now you have to say, 'Pinkie swear.'"

"Pinky swear," he says.

After that, Takeshi halts any further onslaughts. A couple of weeks pass, and Yuri starts to believe that nothing else will happen. His friendship with Yuko continues in secret, usually after school hours. Life slowly returns to normal, and the wounds on his head and face begin to heal.

Then one day, as Yuri prepares to enter the rink, Takeshi walks in on him in the locker room. Two other boys equal in height and girth accompany him. They look like the fat, ugly counterparts to The Three Stooges.

"What's up, Yuri-chan," Takeshi greets with a crooked smile. "How's the head doing?"

Yuri shrinks back into the array of lockers. "I-I don't want trouble, Takeshi-kun."

Takeshi laughs and slaps a hand down onto Yuri's shoulder, startling him. "Oh, Yuri-chan. Didn't I tell you that the next time you get close to Yuko, I'd teach you a lesson?"

Yuri mumbles something inaudible.

Takeshi puts his other hand up to silence him, holding his crooked, mirthless smile. "Well, today's your lucky day, my friend!" He nods to his entourage. "Now, which of them should go first?"

One boy with an acne-ridden face pulls a taser out of his pocket. The other boy with a unibrow pulls out a lighter and tongs from his pocket.

Yuri shakes his head vehemently. "P-please!"

Takeshi rolls his eyes. "Come on, Yuri-chan. You've gotta choose, or I'm going to for you, and I don't think you want that. Do you?"

Yuri continues to shake his head.

Takeshi sighs. "Here. I'll make it easier for you." He pats the boy with the taser. "Either you choose Sato, who will taser your balls." Then he pats the boy with a lighter and tongs. "Or you choose Kenji, who will burn your nipples and tongue. Well? Which one do you prefer?"

Both choices will place him in immeasurable pain.

"I'll give you to the count of three. One…two…thr—"

" _KENJIIII_!" Yuri cries, hoping someone might hear him and come running. Nobody does. "I choose Kenji!"

Takeshi claps his hands together. "Good choice. See? That wasn't so hard, was it?" But then he chuckles and says, "Expect, I think I'm going to switch it up for today." He nods to Sato. "After all, you broke the number one rule Yuri-chan. Therefore, you don't have any power. Not here. Not anywhere."

With a nod of Takeshi's head, Kenji pockets his weapons and grabs Yuri, forcing him to the ground. Takeshi helps, using his significant weight to hold the weaker boy down. He punches his stomach when Yuri tries to wiggle from his grasp, knocking the wind out of him, and giving Sato the window of opportunity to unzip his pants and pull them and his boxers off.

"Damn, are we really the same age, or are we dealing with a preschooler?" Takeshi says to the delight of his underlings.

Yuri shuts his watering eyes. This can't be happening. But it is. If he's unable to escape physically, he might as well try to dissociate himself mentally. He creates a visual distraction in his mind of Victor skating. His crystal eyes wander to Yuri and a reassuring smile crosses his face.

 _Victor. Save me._

Takeshi slaps him out of his reverie. "Oi. Wake up. You're missing the fun. This is where things get good!" His beady eyes sparkle, and his fat neck made up of triple rolls looks like several loaves for bread tucked under his chin. He slaps Yuri again just for amusement and then glances over his shoulder, "Do it."

The sound of buzzing fills the air.

"NOOOO— _mfmmh_!" Yuri's scream is cut off when Takeshi shoves a sweaty sock into his mouth.

Yuri wiggles in a desperate, last-ditch effort to escape. The buzzing noise fades out when he's hit with a sudden burst of electric charge that starts at his loins and filters up his spine and into his brain, scrambling his thoughts. His body goes taut. His teeth rattle together. His toes and fingers become numb. His eyes fry. His nose clogs. His heart stutters. The charge surges through his core until it not only invades his body but his consciousness. Yuri's being devolves into a pile of mush on the locker room floor. The pain doesn't cease until Takeshi finally gives a belated command.

"Is he dead?" Kenji asks.

Takeshi purses his lips and slaps Yuri's cheek. "Fuck."

Yuri can hear them speaking around him. Their voices grow panicked. But the trauma to his body has caused his hearing and sight to weaken substantially. He balances on the precipice of life and death, overlooking a dark void. From this void, arms reach out to beckon him to jump. Voices coax him with promise of safety and peace. Death has a strong argument.

But a strange, cheesy taste enters his mouth, giving him the sensation of fullness. Something rubs back and forth across his tongue, hitting the back of his throat. The taste is fowl. An odor he tries to block out but can't. It tugs him away from the void. What's going on?

His mind gradually fills in the missing pieces, and he snaps back to reality. Takeshi is still hovered over him, but he's closer now and has his fingers entangled in Yuri's hair. Sweat drips from his fat face onto Yuri's forehead. His face scrunches up, and his hips move back and forth in sync with the foreign object inside Yuri's mouth.

And it hits him…

Takeshi.

The back and forth motion.

The foreign object.

 _Oh my God_.

Before Yuri has a chance to bite down, Takeshi comes into the back of his throat. Hot, salty slime fills his mouth, and Yuri squirms and whines. But he ends up gagging and swallowing most of it. This can't be happening. This shouldn't be happening. _Why_ is this happening?

Tears trickle down his cheeks.

"See," Takeshi breathes, wiping sweat off his face with the back of his hand. "He ain't dead." He removes his cock and zips up his pants. "The pussy was just taking a nap."

Disgusting. He's utterly disgusting. Yuri can't imagine looking at himself in the mirror after this—if he should survive, that is. He'd have to hack his face apart to even have a chance to stand before a reflection.

Takeshi removes his weight finally, and Yuri takes his first deep breath in what feels like an eternity.

"Now he's crying," Sato says beneath his cough-like laugh. He hacks and spits out phlegm onto the floor.

"Now for Part Two," Takeshi says, giving another meaningful look to his entourage of fat, monstrous beasts.

The three of them rearrange Yuri until his wrists are constricted by his T-shirt that the boys had stripped off of him during his comatose. A whimper peels through Yuri's clenched teeth, but it regurgitates back into his body when Takeshi shoves the sock inside his mouth again. They splay him farther apart until Yuri feels the cartilage in his spine pop.

Takeshi nods to Kenji.

Kenji lights the lighter and hovers the tongs right above it. The silver metal grows bright red as smoke rises.

Yuri can't do anything but shut his eyes and hope that the pain isn't nearly as unbearable as being tased had been. The salty taste of Takeshi's taint lingers on his tongue and in his throat.

He imagines Victor skating. It's the one image keeping him from falling into oblivion. As the Russian flips and twists through the air, a searing pain hits Yuri's heart. But Yuri holds himself together just for this moment. Victor's crystal eyes meet his, and he mouths something.

 _Stay strong, my love._

All of a sudden, the searing pain ceases, supplanted by a chilling yet relieving sensation. When Yuri attempts to open his eyes, water invades.

"Shit, we triggered the sprinklers."

"You fucking idiot," Takeshi barks.

"What do we do?"

"Just leave 'em. Let's bail!"

A symphony of footsteps enters his still weakened ears, and Yuri draws his arms to his cold chest. His wrists still feel constrained. He hikes his knees up and hugs them close until he forms a naked ball on the locker room floor. A sharp ache hits his heart, and he rolls to the side and opens his eyes to see a red ring around his left nipple. The boys had done some damage but not enough to pierce the epidermis. It looks no worse than a sunburn. But the emotional damage sinks in.

Yuri lies there until the sprinkles stop. By then, the entire floor is at least somewhat underwater.

Footsteps.

Yuri cringes. No, they can't be back.

Someone gasps, and he looks up.

Yuko stands at the entrance, eyes wide, and hands cupped around her gapping mouth. She eventually moves and closes the gap between them. When her hands reach down to touch him and her voice says his name, Yuri jolts away.

"Don't!"

Yuko freezes, mere inches from his face. "Yu-kun, I—"

"Don't touch me!" He buries his face deeper inside his arms. "Stay away from me!"

Yuko hovers above him for a few moments. Then she rises back to her feet and retreats, disappearing behind the entrance. A part of Yuri had hoped she'd stay and insist that she was there to help. But the level of ease and small amount of hesitation she does had answered him instead. It's the wrong answer. But it's the answer he needs to affirm she's no friend of his.

 _Friends_.

While he lies there, he tries counting how many he's had in the past and in the present. He can't count one true friend who's stuck around with him. Friends come and go but there should be a select few that never leave. He thought Yuko had been a part of that list until today.

No, this is his fault. If he hadn't trusted her, Yuri wouldn't be lying here alone and shivering. Takeshi wouldn't have done those horrible things to him if Yuri hadn't continued speaking to her behind the beast's back. If only he hadn't been careless. If only he hadn't placed his trust in her unreliable hands. If only he didn't have friends. Life would be so much simpler.

Friend. There's no word more useless.

So why not cast it away?

No friends means no enemies.

No enemies means no stress.

No stress means no worries.

 _Yes, that sounds perfect_ , he deduces.

Yuri slowly rises from his cold, watery bed. A sharp chuckle develops from inside his throat and releases. It's mocking. It's sickening. But it feels so fucking good to finally have…awakened—to finally take the blindfold off and realize that no good will come to him if he continues to be a victim.

He can play pretend. Be _nice_. Be _admirable_. Be _forgiving_. The façade isn't so hard as long as he practices.

So he will.

A voice enters his ears. It's alarming and hoarse. His body shakes but not by it's own accord. Someone's shaking him.

* * *

Yuri flutters his eyes open. The first person he sees looming over him is Takeshi Nishigori.

"Damn, you were out cold," he says, breathing a hot sigh of relief. "Yuko nearly called the police." He stands and offers a fat hand to Yuri. His smile makes Yuri's stomach churn. It's trying to mask the past. It's trying to convince him to forget what had happened between them. It had worked many times before, but now Yuri's blindfold is off.

Yuri helps himself up. "What are you doing here?"

"Did you forget? You invited us. Or rather, we invited ourselves after hearing about your mom. Isn't she being discharged soon?"

Of course, they'd invite themselves over. This family has no sense of personal space or privacy. Bunch of idiotic, disrespectful delinquents. He should tell them to get out. They might know Victor's here. Yuri needs to protect himself, but more so, he needs to protect his prince.

No, he has a better idea.

"I…yeah," Yuri says. "Anyway, let me get you something to eat." He passes Takeshi and heads for the kitchen. As he makes he way to, he finds Yuko and the triplets sitting in the dining area.

The triplets attack his legs with hugs. Seeing their fat faces and beady eyes reminds him so much of their father. It's like looking at three future Takeshis. Despite their youth, he can't help but feel excited for what's to come.

Yuko helps pry them off. "Yuri. Thank goodness." She pulls him into a hug. He wants to pull away but reminds himself of the plan. When she finally does break away, she asks, "What happened?"

He shrugs and smiles weakly. "Haven't been sleeping well, that's all."

"Right. Your mother," she says, her voice growing solemn. "Where are your father and sister? Are they still not back yet?"

When the Nishigori family first heard about his mother's hospital stay, Yuri had convinced them that his father went on a business trip, and his sister had been invited on vacation with some friends. Neither would return for a few days to a week. That was a few days ago. Yuri's lie can't last for much longer. He has to rectify this burden. Only then will the horrific memories that have seeped back into his mind be silenced.

He massages his temples.

"Are you sick?" Yuko tries to touch him again, but he steps back before their skins touch.

"Let me make you guys some pork cutlet bowls."

"You never change, Yu-kun." Yuko smiles. It's almost convincing enough to make him regret what he's about to do. But Yuri's concern for his safety and for Victor's far exceeds any sympathy he holds toward her. And the sympathy he does have is virtually nothing.

As he prepares the food, the family of five sits and waits. Yuko offers to help him, but Yuri insists that he must cook alone.

"It's what my mom always taught me," he reassures, holding up a hand to keep her away. "Common hospitality."

Takeshi ruffles Axel's hair. "Did you hear the news, Yuri? Victor Nikiforov isn't competing next season."

Yuri halts his motion for a beat. "Really?" He picks up his momentum again, cutting some of the vegetables and heating the water to boiling. He monitors the clock. He was asleep for about an hour. He's neglected Victor for that long. His prince's dinnertime is creeping up. He needs to act fast so he can attend to him. Victor might rescind his forgiveness card. Yuri can't allow that. Meanwhile, he replies, "Do you know why?"

"Nope. Probably injured himself. Figures. He's older now. Can't keep this winning streak going for much longer."

Yuri bites his gum and holds back a retort. The taste of blood on his tongue eases the anguish. He quickens his pace.

"But he did so well in his last competition," Yuko counters. "He could just be taking a break. Even famous protégés need time off from work." She lightly punches her husband. "Don't be rude."

Yuri finishes the last bit of preparation before adding in the small secret he had bought while out earlier today buying Victor's drink. Although his memory has a habit of blacking out, he had bought this special gem as a precaution. Somehow, another part of him had anticipated the Nishigori's visit. He dabs a few drops in five of the six bowls he has prepared and separates his bowl so he won't accidently choose the wrong one.

"Here you go," he says, serving the five other bowls to the family. A forced smile rests on his face. "I'm not as good as my mom, but I hope this suffices while she's in the hospital."

Yuko tastes it first. Her eyes widen. "It's delicious, Yu-kun!"

Yuri laughs lightly and holds a hand to his chest. "Oh, thank goodness."

The triplets devour their food so quickly that they practically inhale it. Their father is no different. Takeshi's the first to finish.

Yuri watches for any hint of lethargy in their faces as he picks at the peas in his bowl and chews each one-by-one.

"You sure you're okay, Yuri?" Yuko asks. Her words slur just the slightest. The special ingredient has already started taking affect.

His chest tightens as the excitement elevates. "Y-yes. I'm just thinking."

"About what?"

Yuri notices the triplets lean forward onto the table, their eyelids droop. Takeshi pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I'm thinking about how I'm going to kill you."

All of their heads jerk toward him.

"Whatdidyou…" Takeshi tries to say but his words fall over each other like dominos.

It's too late for anyone else to say anything. Within a matter of moments the Nishigori family slump in various directions and fall into a drugged-induced sleep.

Yuri blows on his steaming spoon. His true smile supplants his false one. A giggle releases. "See you all in the morning."


	4. Chapter 4

4\. Victor - II

* * *

The dull taste lingers in his mouth. Victor wishes he had water to wash it away, but Yuri neglected to provide him with such. The sharp pain in his abdomen and thigh hits him every time he shifts. He winces. The cage is laden with the stench of piss and shit. The cage bars show no signs of weakness. His greasy hair sticks to his forehead. His clothes are the same ones he walked in with. Absent fresh air and inhaling foulness in every breath, his mind has grown foggy, losing track of time and reality itself. How long has he been trapped here? Two? Three days now? It's impossible to tell in this never-ending darkness. Furthermore, he has yet to find a way out of his prison.

Victor spends his confinement envisioning his routines—past, present, and future. It keeps him sane.

The rink is the one place he feels capable of anything. No limitations—just him alone with the ice and the music. Or so he wants people to believe. In truth, not even skating can free him from the contempt the outside world has toward him.

Off the ice, he'd spend brief moments alone, navigating through online forums and social media, reading the many comments under his pictures. Some he held his attention on:

 _Victor's winning streak won't last._

 _He's never going to make it past thirty._

 _Why doesn't he just quit? He's rich enough._

 _Dude is all looks. No brains. LOL!_

In these private moments he wept, because he knew very well how true these hate comments were. He didn't stop until Yakov's booming voice snapped him back to the rink.

And every time Yakov ordered him back onto the ice, Victor had a fiery urge to say no.

So why didn't he?

Why continue to skate?

Why couldn't he just walk away from it all?

The world's greatest figure skating legend didn't become one out of cowardice. Nor should he leave his career behind in that method. Frequently, he hoped something would happen that might jeopardize or, better yet, end his career to a full stop like a freight train crashing into him.

 _Just break my leg_ , he thought. _Shatter it, so I can never skate again. At least that'll convince people I tried._

Perhaps…he could manipulate his body somehow.

But whenever he attempted a risky jump, his nerves spiked, and he instead landed the jump or lightly landed onto his knee or hip. His mind swam with the comments he saw online. His heart fluttered, and his shoulders shook. Victor gathered himself up from the ice before Yakov could take notice of his despondent expression.

 _Coward_.

He went to bed hearing that word spoken in his dreams. The voice didn't belong to anybody he knew. It was a voice he had conjured deep within himself. It clawed out of his subconscious like a beast. The Beast whispered to him. Threatened him. It wrapped its talons around his neck and shrunk his oxygen supply until he felt like he was about to pass out.

 _Coward_ , it echoed.

And Victor believed it.

Like a puppet on a string, the world was his puppeteer, dragging him along to each world event to compete. Controlling his every move while Victor held his tongue. Pleasing the crowds while ignoring his personal desires. He imagined cutting the strings and severing ties with this life. Only then did Victor think he might truly be free from falling into depravity.

But what coward would allow himself to be controlled? What coward would give up his own priorities to sate the needs of others? What coward would believe that breaking his leg could save him from the world's wrath?

Every day was the same—wake up, head to the rink, practice for hours until he had composed a substantial routine, and then return home and crawl back into bed to await the next day's repetition. His life had devolved into an endless cycle of performances, glamor, façades, and publicity. There was no zest. No moment to breathe. No change.

Something needed to happen. Something needed to fall into his lap or hit him across the head or push him overboard. Something. _Someone_.

He needed to escape this world.

* * *

It was the fourth Grand Prix Finals banquet. Per usual, Victor followed Yakov and his publicity team around as flashing lights formed dark blotches in his eyes. Still, he held up his gold metal and a forced smile to the prodding paparazzi. Several microphones shoved into his face, but Yakov took the gold metal from him and nudged him forward. He couldn't be more grateful for his coach than on that evening.

Beyond the wall of paparazzi, Victor entered a ballroom with an echoing high ceiling and a chandelier. Someone called his name in a curt voice. He instantly knew whom it belonged to.

Yurio stalked toward him, pointing his finger at Victor's chest. "Oi, what took you so long? We've been waiting for you!" His pale eyes glowered at him through a sea of blonde bangs.

Victor laughed meekly and put his hands up. "Forgive me, Yurio. I didn't mean to be tardy."

"Typical," Yurio hissed. "You're always so perfect on the ice, but, with anything else, you're off in fairyland or something."

"Enough," Yakov snapped. "You're talking to your superior here. Be grateful that Victor took home yet another gold metal. He's represented Russia very well. As should you."

The teenage skater shoved his hands into his pockets and clicked his tongue, but no further words came out as Yakov lectured him.

Victor peeled himself away from them to join a familiar crowd of people. He waved to Chris, who responded by launching himself onto the Russian and kissing his cheek. One hand attempted to be subtle, but Victor noticed when Chris squeezed his ass. He pardoned it, knowing only Chris had any kind of authority to do so out of everyone else in the room.

"Oh, Victor. We've been expecting you!" Chris clapped his hands together and dragged his friend over to the throng of skaters that had gathered around one of the dinner tables.

Victor greeted and hugged those he recognized. He shook hands with others and listened to them congratulate him on his fourth consecutive win. He tightened his tie when a few women shouldered their way into the group and propositioned him. Yet more feebleminded nymphomaniacs hoping to spend a night with him so they could add a famous athlete to their repertoire. He politely waved them off. They pouted and moved along.

Victor had had his share of groupies in the past. Scores of men and women—he couldn't exactly keep count—had entered his life and bed. Many of which didn't look for anything more than a quick romp and some extra money. He never found solace in any of the people he'd been with. He frequently yearned for someone to hold all night. Not just for sex but for more. The warmth of someone's skin against his. Hot breath mixing together between thrusts. Words of endearment whispered into each other's ears at the peak of climax. And once it was all over, they would rest in each other's arms and fall asleep. And when he awakened, he'd awaken beside his lover as he would the following morning and so forth.

"Ain't that right, Victor?"

Victor snapped out of his reverie to nod at something that had been said. Then he took a glass of champagne from a waiter who had been doing his rounds. The sharp taste on his tongue quelled some unruly thoughts.

But there was one thought out of them all that he couldn't erase:

He didn't want to be here.

Victor shifted his weight and pretended to listen to the conversations around him, occasionally answering any directed toward him with a smile and a nod. He recited a familiar mantra in his head: _Maintain the façade_. It was the best he could do given the circumstances. As the top figure skater in the world, he mustn't break character.

The venue for this banquet was almost the same as last year's. Though there were a few new additions—including Yurio—nothing seemed appealing. It was going to be yet another mundane night of drinking and false smiles.

As Victor finished his glass and grabbed another to prepare himself for a dull evening, something crashed nearby. Through the throng, he spied the same waiter gathering broken glass off the floor. A young man with dark hair and eyes leaned against a table and repeatedly apologized to the waiter in broken English and Japanese. Victor recognized him—another skater—but his name couldn't find its way into his brain. Given his appearance, he looked around Michele Crispino or J.J. Leroy's age, so he couldn't be a newbie. Victor had done well to learn everyone's name during his façade. So why did this one's name slip his mind?

Victor turned away, assuming nothing more of the incident until the waiter started yelling at the man.

He had grabbed a bottle of champagne and proceeded to chug its entire contents. The waiter frantically reached out to take the bottle away, but the man easily evaded his hand as if the alcohol in his system had granted him newfound strength and flexibility. He continued to chug away without any implication of stopping.

Victor's brows rose. _He's bold. I'll give him that._

"Yuri," someone called. "What are you doing?" A tall, copper-skinned man with a ponytail snatched the now empty bottle from the young man.

Yuri? So he and Yurio shared the same name?

Yurio—as his Japanese fanbase addressed him much to his chagrin—joined Victor's side. "The hell is going on?" Instead of champagne, he held a glass of seltzer in his hand.

Victor shrugged. He still hadn't heard the other Yuri's full name but continued observing with a plethora of onlookers as the taller man tried to pry Yuri away from the dinner table. But the younger man's slender form somehow slipped from his associate's grasp and drunkenly vaulted onto a nearby stage containing a metal pole. Victor's eyes widened as Yuri peeled away his clothes, tugging the stubborn buttons until they gave out, and then proceeded to grind against the pole.

It seemed like the entire world had stopped spinning to watch him. Yurio snapped a few pictures on his phone and said something inaudible. His eyes remained glued to the oddity that was Yuri. His moves, though clumsy at first, found some rhythm to the jazz music playing in the background. His facial expression, influenced by the liquor, showed no hint of embarrassment. He was utterly unapologetic.

Someone joined him on stage. Victor was not surprised to see Chris pull off his clothes. It was almost commonplace for his friend to not wear clothes at all. Modesty wasn't a word Chris stored in his dictionary.

They grinded against each other and the pole, synchronizing their moves into one power force. Victor couldn't pry his eyes away. He had never seen anyone else impress the Swiss, let alone rival his level of sex appeal. But Yuri, despite his drunken stupor, challenged any and every contortion of Chris' body with his own.

It was angelic. It was ethereal. It was rich. It was captivating. Victor could list as many adjectives in the universe of language as possible. His heart stuttered. The blood flowed to his cheeks. He wanted to join them. No, he wanted to join _Yuri_. Just Yuri. But something held him back from approaching.

His public image.

What would people think of him?

What would the media do to him?

What would become of Victor Nikiforov?

 _Fuck it_.

He tossed back the rest of his second glass and lowered it onto a dinner table before approaching the stage. Yuri and Chris were lying at the base of the pole in some inexplicable yet extraordinary position that Victor could only compare to a snake's body being knotted.

Victor's eyes met the younger man's dazed ones. A smile curled up his face, but it wasn't the sad smile he had perfected. It was a rare, genuine smile he feared he had lost a long time ago.

Yuri lifted his head and detangled himself from Chris. "Victor," his accent poured out between slurred words. He blinked and smiled back innocently.

 _Cute. He's so cute._

The distant sound of complaining arose in the background. The voice seemed to belong to Yakov, but Victor faded out his words and replied, "May I?"

A rumble hit the back of the room. Everyone gasped.

Yuri blinked again, the red on his cheeks adding to his allure. Victor wanted him. He wanted him _now_. Slowly but surely, his hand reached for Victor's.

Chris propped his head up onto his fist and cocked a brow. "Stealing him away from me? Oh my, Victor. What will people think?"

Growing impatient, Victor snatched Yuri's wrist and pulled him off the stage and onto his feet. His eyes glance back to the Swiss. "Let them think. I don't care anymore."

Chris flashed an amused grin.

Victor half-dragged half-carried Yuri to the center of the ballroom, one arm cradled the inebriated skater. It took some time for Victor to reassemble the remaining buttons on Yuri's shirt and buckle and zip up his pants. But he did so swiftly even as his own mind grew foggy with the influence of alcohol sinking into his system. Once sated, he took Yuri by the hand and waist.

Yuri shrunk back, but Victor pulled against his reluctance. Their chests pressed together. Victor's heart sung, and he felt Yuri's thunder in response. He was nervous. If not for their audience and Yuri's marred thinking, Victor would have kissed him. His lips were right there. If he were as confidence and diligent as he was on the ice, he might have. Instead, Victor led the dance. Yuri stumbled at first, but again, as if the liquor had granted him inexplicable limber, he recovered and matched Victor's movements with grace. The gathered audience watched in awe and disbelief as the two men carried each other in a dance reminiscent of the tango, rumba, and waltz all mingled into one. Phones flashed like twinkling stars.

More dancers join them, perhaps to best their performance, but Victor paid nobody else any mind. It was just him and Yuri from Japan. Yuri, who's full name still hid behind a locked door. Victor stood on the opposite side of the door, banging on it repeatedly.

Finally, he brushed his lips against Yuri's flushed ear. "Yuri. What's your full name?"

When their eyes reconnected, Yuri's were still blinded by the champagne's spell. The innocent smile lingered. He giggled. "Victor," his voice peeled through the accent. "Victor Nikiforov. V _iiiiiii_ ctooor."

Victor should have guessed as much. While Yuri's feet maintained in step with his, Yuri's mind had become a blank canvas. Oh, well. If Victor had to wait until morning for his answer, he should spend this night enjoying his rebellion. Yakov's irritated voice had fallen into memory. Victor danced until Yuri suddenly hugged him and grinded his hips against his body.

"Victor, my family owns a hot spring in Japan. Please come visit soon." This time when their eyes met, Victor couldn't hold himself back any longer. "V _iiiiii_ ctoooor, be my coach!"

 _That's it_. He grabbed Yuri's hand and clenched it tightly. He couldn't lose him. If he lost him, he wouldn't get a second chance.

In the next few minutes, they were weaving through the throng of partygoers and dancers, racing out of the ballroom and down a few hallways. Victor found a secluded spot away from the din of the music and cluster of eyes.

He forced Yuri against the wall with a passionate kiss.

Yuri released a muffled sound between their lips. Victor opened his mouth wider and slid his tongue into Yuri's mouth, hoping to devour the sound, possess it, and steal it for himself. His arousal swelled in his pants. He felt Yuri's grow against his thigh and imagined the younger man felt the same against his. Victor had a number of lovers in the past, but none had ever made him become so primal so fast as Yuri from Japan had.

Another muffled sound escaped Yuri's throat. But this one was different. Victor could tell for some reason that it wasn't a sound of endearment but of pain. He broke away from their kiss, gasping for air. God only knew how long they had been going since taking their last breaths.

Yuri panted. His face was damp with sweat. No, wait. His _eyes_ were leaking. He had been crying.

Victor stepped back, stunned. "Yuri, I…"

Yuri shielded his face with his hands.

Victor reached up to pull his hands away. "I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry, Yuri. I didn't mean to…I'm such an idiot." In his primal state, he had taken advantage of the younger man, who had practically no chance to snap back or defend himself in his alcohol-induced trance.

When Yuri's hands lowered, his eyes filled with ire. Victor already felt the slap or punch coming, and, honestly, he yearned for it. He needed to know he was in the wrong. Yuri deserved every right to strike him.

Victor closed his eyes as one of Yuri's hands lifted. He hoped the hit would knock him out cold. At least he could wake up with a clearer mind than tonight. Maybe he would hit him so hard, it would leave a permanent scar as a reminder of Victor's self-absorbed foolishness.

Fingers entangled into his hair, and pulled him into a soft pair of waiting lips. Victor's eyes flew open. Yuri's tongue brushed across his teeth, asking for entry. Victor complied and pressed Yuri back up against the wall. Their hips thrust against each other. Victor's erection swelled so much that he could have come right then and there.

They needed a room.

Now.

But the stairs would be impossible for Yuri. The flexibility he showcased on the ballroom had devolved into another prime example of too much liquor on an empty stomach. He was barely keeping himself adrift, sandwiched between Victor and the wall. Together, they acted as his leverage.

They could use the elevator. But Victor didn't want to be stuck in a lift with strangers when Yuri was in such a vulnerable state. Almost everyone rooming in the building knew where he roomed. If even one person were to see him drag Yuri inside, he'd wake up to a flurry of phone calls and emails from media sources. Most of which would be negative. The nonchalant attitude he had earlier began to waver. His worries regarding his public image flowed back into him. Victor broke away from the kiss and held Yuri's face between his hands.

"I can't," he said firmly. He needed to stop. Yuri was drunk. Anything further, and he'd be taking advantage of him.

Yuri's pupils widened. His face. Oh, God, the expression on his face. It was _begging_ Victor to take him.

The Russian gritted his teeth and tapped their foreheads together. "I don't want to corrupt you," he whispered, rubbing his thumb across Yuri's bottom lip. "Not when you're like this."

"Victor," Yuri's meek voice peeled out. It took everything in Victor not to slam the younger man back against the wall and devour everything that he was. Victor noticed Yuri's lips press together. Another hint that he was holding back just as much as the Russian was. The liquor's influence must have begun receding. Maybe one more kiss wouldn't hurt. Just one. Then this exchange of awkward looks, heated breaths, and dubious choices could finally find some resolution.

Victor replaced his thumb with his lips. Unlike before, he didn't force his way into Yuri's mouth. His kisses were soft and meticulous. He savored each one. Planting them all across the other man's face like invisible tattoos. Whenever Yuri seemed to press for more, Victor recoiled. Whenever Yuri's hands attempted to slide into Victor's clothing, he grabbed his wrists. A whine escaped the younger man's throat, and the Russian fought back his own urges from tearing down the wall of resolve he had built. But the more Yuri complained, the weaker his willpower grew.

"Victor," Yuri gasped. "I want you…now." It was the first sensible sentence he had spoken during their private time together. "Please."

The last word added to his torture. Victor felt like he was on a gurney being dissected. Each plaintive reply of Yuri's voice or lips was like a pair of hands tugging on his heart, trying to sever the organ from its arteries. He couldn't live without his heart, and he couldn't live knowing he had left Yuri in such an empty state.

"I want to know it's okay," he said, still hesitant. His primal lust pounded against a wall, about to break free. But Victor had enough common sense to know that if he did choose this path, he couldn't do it without the other man's consent. "Just say it. I need to hear you say that it's okay."

Yuri's pupils dilated. "Victor. Please."

But there was a fine line between begging and acceptance. Victor whispered into his ear, "Tell me it's okay."

"It's ok—"

The Russian had heard enough before his primal instincts besieged the wall of resolve. Every passionate kiss equated to another piece of his willpower breaking down. His hand slid beneath Yuri's shirt, and his fingers ran across the younger man's taut abs. Victor counted six. His hand slid out and started work on Yuri's undershirt. In seconds, he unbuttoned the same amount of buttons he had reassembled. Unbeknownst to him at first, Yuri was working on Victor's belt. He tugged at the pants with earnest. Victor was impressed by how much Yuri could multitask despite seeming on the verge of collapse.

Victor pulled away from the kiss. "What do you want?"

Yuri cocked his head to the side like a curious dog. His answer was belated but clear, "I wanna suck you off." His tongue moistened his lips.

 _Well, damn_. Victor had anticipated something else, but if that's what Yuri preferred, then he was all for it.

"Okay."

Yuri slid down Victor, who helped his descent to ensure Yuri didn't accidently fall on his face. He wrapped his fingers around the Russian's shaft and ran his tongue across the head.

Victor arched and released a gasp. He was already on the precipice of euphoria. Anything that Yuri did now threatened to make his heart explode and his essence pour out. He rested his palms against the wall as Yuri took more of him into his mouth. Moans supplanted his sharp gasps. His pleasure spiked.

"Shi—"

He lurched forward and expelled everything he had into the younger man's mouth far sooner than he had anticipated.

Yuri gulped.

" _Ohmygod_ —!" Victor grabbed the man's face and lifted it so their eyes reconnected. "You didn't have to…" Heat rose to his face when he noticed the string of semen running down Yuri's chin. Victor kneeled down and rubbed it away with the back of his sleeve. "Sorry." He had to commend him. Not many would be willing to swallow—especially unprepared. Victor wondered how many people Yuri had been with. It would be an insult to ask, but he imagined as many as Victor had—an above average amount.

Another question was whether Yuri had ever been with another man? Did he even swing _that_ way? Evidence of alcohol still rested on his breath. Victor's lust wavered. He shouldn't do this while Yuri was on the brink of comatose. If the man woke up the next day not knowing what had transpired, Victor would be bordering on sexual assault. Yuri from Japan was steadily transforming into Yuri the One-Night Stand. The Russian had had his share of drunken one-nighters, but this one was different. Not only because Victor would feel immense guilt, but also because Yuri didn't seem like the one-night stand type. Victor sensed it.

He promptly zipped his pants and buckled his belt. Then he pulled Yuri up from the ground and rectified his attire. "I can't. For real this time."

Yuri stared at him.

"I'm sorry," Victor whispered, buttoning the last button on Yuri's shirt. "I want to, but this is wrong. You will regret it. We're both better off going our separate ways for now." He couldn't tell whether he was trying to convince himself or Yuri more.

Yuri's mouth parted in disbelief. "Victor."

The Russian bit his gum and adverted his eyes. If he looked into Yuri's for too long he was going to succumb to his natural desires. And if he did, he knew he wouldn't be able to restrain himself. He had to do this now. Victor closed the gap between them and brushed his lips against Yuri's ear. "Next time we see each other, I promise we'll be able to finish what we've started. I promise then I'll do everything to you—you'll never want anyone else. Just make sure that you remember me when we do, Yuri. Because I will never forget you." He kissed down the younger man's flushed neck and breathed in his scent, cataloging it into his brain so that the next time they did meet, if he didn't recognize Yuri's face, he'd remember his smell.

"Victor," Yuri's voice sounded pained.

Victor coiled his arms around Yuri's lean waist and held him firmly. He was afraid to let go. "Yuri."

"Victor."

"Yuri."

They echoed each other's names through their accents until Victor found the willpower to peel himself away, making sure to avoid Yuri's eyes. For those eyes wanted to trap him.

Someday soon, Victor hoped they would.

* * *

 **A/N:** Happy Halloween! Too bad this chapter isn't as "festive" as the previous, but I hope some people still found it entertaining. I had to rearrange some of the canon backstory, including the origin of Yurio's nickname (for obvious reasons), and use it as a means to tell the Yuris apart. This is the first of a couple of "flashback" chapters. A different one will be told from Yuri's POV and will be posted next week. After that, onwards to the real fun! *Insert evil laugh*

Come find me on tumblr: vampiregrose


	5. Chapter 5

5\. Yuri - III

* * *

Everything's in place.

It took some time moving the unconscious family, but he's done so. One of the few successes he's achieved in life. Yuri enjoys a hot cup of tea, letting the taste sooth his mind and his aching back. He needs to be ready before he can move forward with the rest of his plans.

A knock comes at the door.

His heart lurches, but he feigns a welcoming smile as he pulls open the door. Arms coil around his shoulders, and a great weight threatens to bring him to the floor. He catches Ms. Minako before she can drag both of them down and gingerly drops her onto the couch. The stench of alcohol pollutes her breath.

"Yur _iiiii_ ," she sings. "How's it goin'?"

"Fine," he replies curter than intended. "I'm fine," he corrects.

If Yuri lets his temper take over, he may give away his position. His eyes glance at the clock. According to what he's read, the drug's effect will last at least an hour. It took him almost a half hour to move the comatose bodies—the most difficult being Takeshi. He still hasn't fed Victor. He's behind schedule, and now he has yet another obstacle to outmaneuver.

 _Breathe_.

He does so as he formulates a plan to get her out of here as soon as possible. But the more solutions Yuri draws in his mind, the more lethargic Ms. Minako looks.

He sits down on the edge of the couch. "How much have you had tonight?"

"Not enough!" She lifts her head. "Mari! Hiroko! Where's the sake?"

Yuri suspects two things: Either Ms. Minako still hasn't heard word of his mother's hospital stay, or she's forgotten about it in her drunken stupor. Regardless, he pushes her back down onto the cushion and says thoughtfully, "They're not here. You look tired. You should sleep."

"I ain't tired!" she slurs, swatting his hand away.

But Yuri can't have her wandering around the house. She'll ruin the surprise. "I'll get you the sake, Ms. Minako." He feels her muscles relax beneath his fingertips. Then he stands and heads over to the kitchen, finding the drink of choice in the back of the fridge. He's learned from his days serving at the hot spring that most customers like their sake only slightly chilled, never ice cold. He pours a glass and adds in an extra drop of his secret ingredient. He waits until the drink has warmed a bit before offering it to Ms. Minako.

She sits up, snatches it out of his hand, and gulps its entire contents down her throat. For all her beauty, Ms. Minako sure seems her age when she's like this. Shame she had given up her ballet career for the bottle. Yuri almost pities her. Almost.

"More," she demands.

He pours her another glass and waits for the secret ingredient to take effect. It's fascinating watching someone descend into a drug-induced coma. It's like watching them fall to the brink of death. Ms. Minako grows top heavy first. She fights the sudden onslaught of fatigue. Yuri hadn't anticipated using his secret ingredient on an additional house invader, but, at this point, he likes to consider himself an opportunist.

He watches closely as her body leans forward. Yuri catches her before her face hits the wooden floor and can shatter her features. Then he picks her up in his arms and carries her into his sister's room. She's lighter than he thought. Funny, even as an adult, Ms. Minako always seemed so intimidating. As a mentor, she certainly was. But now it feels like he's cradling a child.

How the tables have turned.

* * *

The first time Yuri had been exposed to the skating rink was on his fifth birthday. Ironically, it wasn't his decision or Victor's influence. He hadn't known about the silver-haired prince yet.

His mother thought it would be interesting to orchestrate his party around a winter theme since his birthday fell upon November 29th. Among the guest list were his sister, Mari, Yuko, Takeshi, and other neighbors and friends, including Mari's older friend, Ms. Minako.

When Yuri first met Ms. Minako, he thought she was about his sister's age. Her wrinkle-absent skin was the envy of many local women. Upon learning her true age, Yuri considered himself a part of her admirers. Ms. Minako could outmatch anybody in the youth department no matter how old she became. Age was just a number. Meaningless.

But the true appreciation he'll always have for Ms. Minako is that she had been the one to convince him to start figure skating. She had watched him that day at his birthday party as he skated around the rink, twirled, posed, and giggled. She stopped him midway through.

"Yuri, why don't you come to my studio tomorrow?"

"Why, Ms. Minako?"

She smiled. "It's a surprise."

The next day, he showed up at her studio's entrance. She opened the door wearing a leotard. Ms. Minako pulled him inside, almost afraid that someone else would see them. The instant she had, she placed her hands on her hips and said, "You're going to be a figure skater, Yuri Katsuki. And I'm going to teach you."

He blinked. "Huh?"

"The way you were on the ice? Not many kids your age are that passionate. I've seen only one other kid around your age who caught my eyes so easily. And he's considered a protégé now. That's saying a lot." Ms. Minako rummaged around in a nearby briefcase and pulled out a pink leotard. "This was mine when I was your age. I know it's girly, but it should fit you since you're pretty skinny."

Yuri stepped back when she offered the change of clothes to him. "I-I don't know if I'm that good." He also wasn't fond of pink.

Ms. Minako kneeled to his level and patted his head fondly. "Yuri, everyone's good at something. But a lot of people never figure out what they're good at. That's why it's important to try as many things as possible, so you don't end up like one of those people. Do you want to go through your life miserable?"

He shook his head vehemently.

"Then _try_ it. If you hate it, I'll never bother you about it again." She offered the leotard to him, and Yuri accepted it this time.

"But Ms. Minako, aren't you a ballet teacher?"

"Yeah, but ballet and figure skating are like sisters. They both center on grace and creativity. The only real difference is that one's on ice and the other's on wood." She stomped the wooden floor for emphasis. "Until I find you a decent skating coach, I'll help you out. Just promise to come here as often as you can. Before school, after school, weekends, midnight. I don't care. Any time works."

A sliver of doubt lingered inside Yuri's heart. Why was Ms. Minako so insistent? Yes, she wanted him to find something that he loved, but what did she attain out of this? Ms. Minako was no stranger to fame. She had spent most of her life performing on stages around the world, winning prestigious awards, receiving sufficient prize money—enough to open her own studio as soon as she retired. How could Yuri ever represent someone of her capacity?

But from a young age, Yuri had a difficult time saying no to people. "Okay," he said, "I'll try."

And thus he practiced his balance, grace, movement, precision, and stage performance until Ms. Minako found someone and passed him onto his next mentor, Celestino Cialdini. He taught him how to perfect Ms. Minako's teachings on ice instead of hardwood floor. And Yuri grew fond of the feeling of the wind against his face and the A/C cooling his skin.

Until one day, where he was at Ms. Minako's practicing a routine he would eventually transfer to the ice.

"No, no, no!" She clapped her hands together. "Do it again!"

So Yuri obeyed. He jolted when her voice repeated the same three no's in a row. Her tone grew harsher, and his heart stuttered.

"Again!"

He did it again.

"Again!"

And again.

"Again! Again! AGAIN—!"

" _Ow_!" Yuri felt a pop in his ankle. He plummeted to the floor. A searing pain ran up his leg. He winced, clenching his ankle. Pulling down his sock, he ran his fingers across the bruising flesh. "I think…I think it's sprained."

Ms. Minako groaned. "Do you know how many injuries I've dealt with over the years?" She kneeled down and pulled away part of her sleeve to show him a scar on her wrist, another on her shoulder, another on her side, and another on her leg. "These are just the ones I'm willing to show you. My career was cluttered with setbacks. I only retired when my family, doctors, and instructor insisted I could never dance again unless I risked never walking again, too."

Yuri dipped is head.

Ms. Minako tilted his chin back up so their eyes met. "If you think you're the only one hurting, then you're wrong, Yuri. Everyone hurts. Everyone suffers. But you have the power to choose how you deal with that pain." Her eyes were predatory as if she were a lioness looking at a wounded gazelle. "So don't ever complain in front of me." She stood, pulling him to his feet. "Again."

Yuri limped for a few steps. As the music replayed, he grit his teeth and fought against the sharp ache in his ankle.

* * *

Yuri looks down at Ms. Minako's sleeping form. Her words float around in his head within a cacophony of whispering voices.

"I have the power…" he mumbles as his finger traces the bridge of her nose and philtrum. He imagines the finger is a knife, opening her face up and parting the flesh in half. He continues to envision peeling away the muscle to reach the bone beneath.

Then a new voice rises above the rest. It sounds close, like a lover's voice whispering tenderly into his ear.

 _Yuri. What are you waiting for_?

His head lifts, and his eyes fly around his sister's room. "Victor," he breathes. "When did you—?"

 _You don't want her to find out, do you_?

His stomach churns. He thought Victor's other self had abandoned him. Hated him. He thought he'd never hear it again. That it had cast him away like nothing. Yuri lowers his gaze back to his teacher's sleeping form. The desire of him opening her skull up and messing with her innards strengthens. His body begins to shake. His heart races like he's run a marathon.

 _Do you_? the voice insists.

"N-no." His hands slowly wrap around her neck and begin to tighten their grip. Ms. Minako's breathing grows labored. Even in her drug-induced coma, her body flails. Her eyebrows twitch. A muffled cough doesn't reach beyond her throat. Yuri presses down until he can feel her airwave thin between his fingers. Closer and closer—he senses the life draining out of her.

A loud ringing startles him. He jumps to his feet as his sister's alarm goes off. He composes himself and vaults over the bed to shut it off. When he turns back to Ms. Minako, her body settles and her breathing gradually reverts to its original speed. Red marks cloak her neck like a chocker necklace. Yuri looks down at his trembling hands, eye widening. He can still feel her skin between his fingers. Feel the life shriveling.

He grabs his head and curls his fingers around two fistfuls of black hair. His knees buckle. He's on the floor. Tears blur his vision and fog his glasses. Ms. Minako, out of anyone besides his mother, she's the last person who deserves death. She's been nothing but a constant motivator—even longer than Victor. And he was going to kill her so nonchalantly.

Yuri finds his feet and fixes his askew glasses. When Ms. Minako wakes, she'll have bruising around her neck. She'll wonder what has happened. She'll ask him. He needs to do something. If she learns of her injuries, she might alert someone. She might find out about the Nishigori family…

Yuri pauses. His eyes wander to his sister's alarm clock. It's ten. He slipped the secret ingredient into their drinks almost an hour ago. He has no idea how long it may hold them till. He has to do something with Ms. Minako in the meantime. If he simply leaves her, she may wake during the duration he's taking care of the Nishigori family. She may even come to investigate. She may find them. She may find _Victor_.

Yuri takes action.

He rifles through his sister's drawers and closet and builds makeshift restraints out of socks and blouses. If he can't risk letting her go, he needs to risk keeping her around. He binds her wrists to either side of the bed's headboard, assessing their firmness. They're not that reliable, but they'll have to do. Besides, he can't waste time running around town looking for proper manacles.

But what if she screams? Obviously waking up like this will initiate a negative response. Yuri hurries to the hardware closet and removes a roll of tape. He peels some off, using his teeth as scissors, and covers her mouth. The tape isn't strong enough to form additional restraints, but at least it should withhold her voice should she wake.

Yuri locks his sister's door behind him for added security. As he heads for the basement, he slaps a hand over his face upon realizing he still hasn't fed Victor. What a terrible host he's been. He deserves no forgiveness. All he can hope for is that Victor hasn't lost any of his muscularity or beauty in the time between now and his last meal.

Yuri rushes to the kitchen and opens the fridge. He has just enough to make miso soup, but an athlete like Victor will need more than that if he's to regain his vigor. He cusses under his breath. The last amount of meat had been wasted on that gluttonous pack of invasive pigs. He can't go to the grocery store to buy more at this late of an hour either.

Yuri chews on his gum until he tastes blood.

 _Think, damn it_. _What can you feed him_?

Absentmindedly, he opens the freezer. Beyond the ice cream, ice packs, and frozen foods, he finds a plastic bag. His stomach twists.

Maybe…

No. What's wrong with him? Why would he consider such a thing to feed to Victor? _Victor_. Of all people!

But he can't let his prince starve.

He pulls the bag out from the freezer and places it down on the kitchen table. It weights a hefty amount—fifty or sixty pounds, he estimates. Yuri detangles the arms and opens the bag. The contents don't smell as rancid as he anticipated. In fact, minus the entrails, they look rather appetizing. His hands rest on his hips as he examines the plastic bag's interior with more concern and a keener eye. A deep sigh leaves through his nose—releasing any remaining dubiousness.

He pulls up his sleeves, turns on the stove, and gets to work.

* * *

Half past ten, he opens the basement door and flicks the light on at the top of the cellar stairs with his elbow. In his right hand sits a hot bowl of miso soup, and in his left, the prototype for his makeshift "pork" cutlet bowl. With careful precision and care, he steps down the line of stairs without issue.

"Victor," Yuri says, kneeling at his door and sliding both bowls through it. "I have your dinner. I'm so sorry it was late. I had…here you go. Let me know if you like it." He shouldn't have said that. His nerves make him say the stupidest things. If not for Victor, he'd slap himself for such incompetence.

The silver-haired prince turns his head first, possibly allured by the smell of fresh, warm food. His body follows. His crystal eyes meet Yuri's, and the younger man shrinks back. His heart flutters. His face flushes. God, he's so beautiful. No matter where he is or how he's treated, Victor's ethereal features will always outshine anyone else.

Victor scoots across the floor to reach his dinner. "Thank you, Yuri." Hearing his name through the Russian's smooth accent makes the hairs on the back of Yuri's neck stand on edge.

He wants to kiss him so badly.

No, that's sinful. Despite everything he's done to hurt his idol, Yuri can't fathom doing something so impulsive like taking advantage of Victor. _God, stop being so stupid_! _Stupid_! _Stupid_!

He refrains from hitting himself, opting to rake his nails against the skin on his arm as a substitute until he draws blood. His eyes stare intently on his silver-haired prince as he raises a spoonful of the miso soup to his mouth, blowing softly on it before sipping.

"Is it too hot?"

"No, it's perfect." He then reaches for the "pork" cutlet bowl.

Yuri's heart pounds, and a bead of cold sweat drips down the nape of his neck as Victor takes his first bite and chews.

He smiles thoughtfully and nods. "Mmm."

All the tension in Yuri's body extinguishes through a sigh. He had worried Victor would notice some difference. But all seems well.

"Oh, there's still some shōchū left!" He rushes back upstairs and returns with a filled wine glass in hand.

Victor alternates between the three foods until everything has been emptied. Good, so as long as the meat he has stored lasts, Yuri can apply his new recipe without having to drive all the way to the grocery store in the morning.

"Here," Yuri says, "let me take them."

Victor pushes the empty bowls and glass back to his host. "Yuri," he says, before the younger man leaves. "Can I have water please?"

Yuri takes a water bottle from a 24-pack nearby and leaves it on the other side of Victor's door. He watches him guzzle its entirety down faster than the liquor.

Victor wipes his lips with the back of his hand. "And go to the bathroom?"

"What for?"

"I need to pee and I'd like to use the shower."

Yuri nods to the makeshift bathroom he had provided for his prince next to his futon. "Can't you use that?"

Victor glances over his shoulder and shakes his head. When he turns back to Yuri, his eyes are big like a puppy's. "Please, Yuri. You can…you can accompany me, if you want. I'd like that."

Accompany him? As in, bathe with him? Watch him while he uses the toilet? See every inch of that porcelain body again? And not just by force, but _willingly_? Victor, the man he's fantasized late at night when Yuri crawls into bed and fondles himself, will show him everything. _Everything_.

"Why would you want me there?" Yuri asks as a precaution.

Victor's crystal orbs continue to mesmerize him, tempting Yuri to break the lock on his door and tackle the Russian to the floor with kisses. "Because, ever since last year's banquet, I've always wanted to see you, Yuri."

He cocks an eyebrow. "What?"

Victor tries to lean forward but winces. "You really don't remember?" His fingers brush across his bottom lip. "We kissed. You...we did things."

He almost looks like one of Yuri's fantasies sitting there submissively. "What kind of things?"

"I can show you." This time when Victor leans forward, he doesn't wince. Perhaps fighting the pain. "Just open the door first."

It sounds too good to be true. It sounds like an apparition is talking to him. But it's not. This is the real Victor Nikiforov. The real silver-haired prince sits beyond a locked door. His real crystal orbs stare through it and at Yuri with a longing expression. Yuri leans forward, reaching for the lock to Victor's room and inserting the key inside the keyhole, prepared to fulfill both the Russian's wishes and his own curiosity.

Someone groans.

Yuri jolts and hops to his feet, snapping back to the task he had almost neglected. In the corner of the room, sprawled across the table like a roasted pig is Takeshi.

"I'm sorry, Victor," he says, bowing his head. "But I have to do something first. Just hold on a little longer." To keep Victor's view of him pure, Yuri collects a blanket from a storage closet, dusts it off, and covers Victor's door with it. This is not something for the Russian to see. This is not how Yuri wants to be perceived by his idol. But, deep down, a bitter seed that had been planted inside of him long ago has hatched. And the only way to halt its growth is to partake in one final showdown. Just him and Takeshi.

Yuri gathers his supplies ready as the fat man comes to.

"W-what the hell?" Takeshi shakes his bonds. "Where am I?"

Yuri blinds him with the same light he had used on Victor. Only this time, he knows for certain he's going to utilize his newfound talent for something extra special. He had never had this level of participants before—Takeshi was just the main one of the bunch. Yuri grabs a set of rubber gloves and pulls them over his hands, listening to the satisfying snap they make.

 _I have the power_ …

When he's set up his stage, Yuri picks up Victor's skate and a lighter the nearby table and approaches the fat man. "Good morning, Takeshi. I'm glad you enjoyed dinner."

He turns the bright light onto another corner of the cellar where four potato sacks are strung up by rope.

"I hope you have room for more."


	6. Chapter 6

6\. Victor - III

* * *

WARNING: This chapter contains a lot of gore and OOC moments.

* * *

Victor feels the pang of a headache develop behind his eyes. He pinches the bridge of his nose to subside it to no avail. The lack of healthy liquids in his diet has caught up to him. Yuri keeps insisting that sweet potato shōchū will somehow suffice. But Victor needs water. _Water_. Not alcohol. He may not be a lightweight, and a few glasses here and there may help null the sting from his wounds, but he can feel his body steadily declining. And the stench permeating from the corner of his cage isn't helping his predicament.

He leans against the bars and looks around at his small settings for perhaps the hundredth time today. His stomach growls. The last meal he ate was a breakfast consisting of egg, bacon, and toast with milk that Yuri had prepared and provided. Victor had savored every bite. After however many days of confinement, he's learned to enjoy the littlest things. When Yuri does remember to bring him food, it's not only home-cooked but surprisingly delicious, as if he takes considerable care to perfect every dish for Victor.

But he can't deny what's happened to Yuri since their last meeting—or rather, what he _is_. Victor believed he had found a potential lover, maybe even a partner for life. Nobody has ever had the kind of hold on Victor Nikiforov that Yuri Katsuki does. And yet, the person Victor thought he met on the evening of the fourth Grand Prix banquet had been a mask. He wonders if who he met was a shadow. No, it has to be the same person. He's talked to fellow skaters and seen Yuri on the Internet and television—which is how he discovered his personal information. He had watched Yuri for over a year, waiting for the opportunity to say something away from any invasive cameras or eyes. He used to go to sleep reciting what he'd say to the younger man. Deciding the best tactic to gain his favor. He had put in so much work for nothing. Yuri from a year ago is a distant memory. This Yuri, the one who has kidnapped and imprisoned him, is Victor's reality. The Russian contemplates if he somehow caused it. He shouldn't have quit figure skating without telling Yakov where he was heading. He shouldn't have brought Makkachin with him to Japan. He shouldn't have walked into a stranger's house so eagerly. But his lingering affection for Yuri Katsuki blinded his common sense. He's like a flame that Victor flew too close to—beautiful from a distance but deadly when you try to touch it.

And Victor had paid dearly for his incompetence.

 _Poor, sweet Makkachin_. Tears well in his eyes.

The poodle meant no harm. He was always a good boy—never intolerant of strangers like some dogs can be. He welcomed them, preferably. Even small children that liked to pull his tail and ears were safe. Animals have a sixth sense—they can read signs humans cannot. They know when to fight or run. They know between right and wrong faster than their two-legged counterparts. On that day, Makkachin sensed the darkness within Yuri's heart the moment he and his owner had stepped across the threshold between the outside world and the inside of his house. He had tried to warn Victor of the danger. But Victor didn't take off his blindfold until it was too late for the both of them.

Victor envisions Makkachin here with him, lapping his face, giving him sloppy, smelly kisses. His plush, brown fur and wet nose rubbing against his owner's skin. His tail wagging a mile a minute. His simple presence easing any of Victor's disconcerting feelings.

They met on a cold Christmas morning, the morning of Victor's twelfth birthday. Victor had purchased him against his parents' wishes and with some of the prize money he had stored from his junior competitions.

Victor never considered any other dog breed. He needed a companion that was friendly, intelligent, and, above all, loyal. Even before he sat down and started searching the web for a breeder, he'd seen poodles performing in dog shows on television and walking with their owners on the street, and he always admired how regal they looked on screen yet how adorable they could be in person.

He found a well-reviewed breeder and called her up the same day. A month later, he stood in front of an airport, bouncing on the tips of his toes, anxiously awaiting his new friend's arrival.

A woman walked out holding a black suitcase with holes. She approached him. "Victor?"

He nodded.

She placed the suitcase down and smiled. "Here he is." She kneeled down and unzipped the front. When she pulled out the tiny, brown fluff, Victor's heart skipped and a giggle released from his throat. The woman handed him the fluff. "He just turned six weeks."

The fluff looked up at him with big eyes and licked his chin, sending Victor's already excited heart into frenzy. He nuzzled his face into his new friend's fur and breathed in his shampooed odor.

"So what are you going to name him?"

"Makkachin," he answered.

The woman cocked an eyebrow. "Makka…chin?" She shrugged. "That's very cute. Is it a Russian name?"

Victor was too taken with his new fluffy friend to answer her. A flurry of wet kisses followed the one on his chin, and soon his face was dampened by Makkachin's affection.

As he anticipated, they had bonded instantly.

A soft smile crawls up Victor's face as the memory warms him. The cage doesn't feel as cramped as before. The basement door opens, and he glances over his shoulder to see something rolling down the stairs.

Victor sits up and narrows his eyes. The light flicks on at the top of the staircase to reveal the potato sack. Another, smaller one, joins it, then another, and then another, until four potato sacks filled with what could easily not be potatoes pile up at the foot of the stairs.

Someone releases a deep sigh.

He hears footsteps and recognizes them even before he sees Yuri's face. He's come to recognize a few of Yuri's patterns during his confinement, including the fact that Yuri doesn't seem to acknowledge him as often as he possibly should. Like right now, as he picks up the potato sacks and strings them up one-by-one onto a nearby clothes hanger, Yuri never makes eye contact. He seems to be in some strange trance—focusing his full attention on his task. Victor considers calling out to him just for curiosity's sake but his voice gets caught inside his throat when his eyes widen at the next thing Yuri drags down the stairs.

A man of wide girth and tan skin falls flat onto his stomach and face. His body has gone limp, and one arm lies slightly contorted. Victor ducks back, rattling the cage and nearly knocking over the bucket full of excrement. He's never seen a body before. Not a real one. The little contents in his stomach threaten to pour out like bile, but he claps his palm to his mouth and averts his eyes. He mustn't throw up. Not even in the presence of such horrifying circumstances. His years competitively skating have taught him to savor any amount of fuel he has. It may prove invaluable.

Yuri cusses under his breath and wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "Fat bastard." He rolls the body over and drags it toward the table that Victor had once been splayed across. Yuri strains his back at one point and winces as he hoists the body onto the table. After using a moment to recover, he begins unbuttoning the dead man's clothes until there's nothing left but skin.

And that's when Victor notices the man's chest rise and fall. His mouth drops, and he stifles a gasp.

He's still _alive_.

Victor resists the urge to call out to the victim for fear he may make things worse than what they are. Yuri restrains his captive's limbs with what Victor first assumes is rope but is actually a mixture of shoelaces and socks. Seeing the man tied up makes his own memories of waking up to that bright light and complete lack of attire or mobility seep back into him.

"Good," Yuri mumbles with a satisfied grin. "Everything's in place now." He still doesn't make eye contact with Victor as he ascends the stairs, turns the light off and shuts the door behind him.

And the darkness closes around Victor yet again.

But he's not alone.

He waits until the footfalls across the upper level dissolve. Once he's sure he won't be heard, he whispers, "Hey," in English.

No response.

"Hey," he whispers louder and sharper.

The darkness starts to wane as Victor's eyes adjust. He sees the outline of the man's body still breathing but most likely unconscious.

Victor presses his face against the cage bars and sighs. He has nothing to throw at the man to try and will him out of his slumber. All he has is the bucket, and Victor's not risking _that_.

He nibbles on his gum and decides to try his hand at Japanese. He's not fluent, but his time spent on the road constantly has helped him pick up certain words and phrases. He had lucked out with Yuri, whose fluency in English is more impressive than Victor's. But Yuri's a rare case. Not many people in these parts speak English. So the Russian mulls through several greetings in his head until he finds a suitable one that's not too formal and not too informal.

" _Chotto_." His tone has the right amount of urgency behind it. " _Oi_." He squishes his face against the cold barrier that separates him from the outside, as if the action will somehow project his voice farther and clearer.

Someone stirs, but it's not the man.

Victor follows movement in his peripheral vision to the corner where the four potato sacks have been strung up. One of them wiggles, and a small voice pries out from beyond the fabric:

"Mommy?" she says in Japanese.

Victor's heart drops.

The bag farthest to the right wiggles again. It looks like a cocoon ready to hatch. The Russian can only assume what age range the voice belongs to. He estimates no older than elementary school.

"Hello? _Mommy_?"

"Hey," Victor responds gently.

"W-who's there?"

He tries to search the dictionary in his head for the right translation. "My name is Victor Nikiforov."

The tiny voice hesitates. "L-like the figure skater?"

"Yes. That's me."

"Why are you h-here?"

"I got cap—" _No, wait. That'll just make things worse. The poor thing is already petrified_. He needs to keep her calm—well, calm enough. Victor shakes his head and thinks about a better use of his words before deciding on, "I was visiting, but now I'm…stuck like you. What's your name?" He keeps his voice as relaxed as possible, despite his nerves spiking each time he hears a creak from the floorboards above.

"Axel," the voice responds.

"Okay, Axel. Tell me how you got here?"

"M-my family came over to Uncle Yuri's house because we thought he was lonely without his dad and sister around, and his mom is in the hospital. We were eating dinner when Uncle Yuri said something very weird…then I got really tired and fell asleep."

"What weird thing did he say?"

Axel releases a whimper. Her sack shifts, and the sound of soft weeping reaches Victor's ears.

"Axel," he says, trying to comfort her despite their circumstances.

"He said that he was deciding how to kill us."

A lump swells in the Russian's throat. He should have guessed that was Yuri's intension from the start. Maybe something inside his subconscious knew, but he didn't want to listen to it. Makkachin's face appears in his thoughts. The poodle cocks his head to the side and looks at his owner with a quizzical expression, as if to ask, "What are you going to do? Are you just going to sit here and wait?"

Victor clenches his hands around the bars, wishing he could break them.

"I'm scared. Where _am_ I?" Axel's voice rises in volume and pitch. The silence between them must have caused her to panic.

He shushes her. "It's okay. I'll help you." Help her how? He's in here, and she's out there. How in any way, shape, or form will Victor be able to physically save her? He can't even save himself.

"How?" she asks, as if reading his mind.

Victor grits his teeth. He couldn't save Makkachin. But somehow he feels he has been given a second chance to rectify his loss. If only these damn bars weren't in his way. If only he had something to wedge into the keyhole and hear the satisfying click of it open. If only—

Footfalls.

His heart lurches.

They sound slower than Yuri's. Someone else must be above with him. But as Victor listens, he can't hear any additional visitor. He can only assume these sounds belong to Yuri, or maybe—

"Axel," he whispers loudly. "Do you have any siblings?"

Her sack wiggles. "Two sisters."

The footfalls seem too heavy to belong to children. And, based on the number of potato sacks, Victor deduces that her sisters have also been captured along with her, her mother, and her father.

The footfalls dissolve. A new sound like a door screeching open hits his eardrums. Muffled voices. One, softer and less clear, must be Yuri's. The other is loud and slurred.

"I ain't tired!"

The first sensible words he's heard thus far.

Axel whimpers.

Victor shushes her again. "Just stay quiet. I'm looking for a way to get us out of here," he reassures. But words are nothing without actions to back them up. While Victor doesn't want to be labeled a liar, he can't let her lose any more sanity than she clearly has. He tightens his jaw, feeling time running out. As long as Yuri's distracted, Victor can start thinking of methods to escape.

He surveys the dark room. Axel's father still lies unconscious and tied up so he'd be no help even if he were awake. Victor shakes the cage, hoping for any sign of imbalance. Yuri had put him in here while he was still in shock from his— _interrogation_. He was weakened enough not to fight back and had trusted Yuri's tears after he begged Victor to forgive him. Somehow, the younger man must have anticipated Victor's arrival. How else would he have attained this sort of confinement?

He starts fiddling with the lock on the door, trying to break it with his own strength. But it's futile. Locks like this one are specifically designed to never break. Even if the Russian were in peak physical condition, he wouldn't stand a chance against the inanimate object.

In the time Victor spends trying to carve a way out, he loses track of the events going on upstairs. The basement door flies open and the light flicks on again.

" _Shit_!" he whispers, and his eyes fall to Axel's sack. "Axel, don't move." He hopes she's heard him.

Yuri steps down the stairs slowly and with care. He's holding a pair of bowls in his hands, both steaming. Once he reaches the bottom step, his dark eyes wander to the Russian. A soft smile crawls up his face. "Victor," Yuri says, and kneels down in front of the cage. The smile on his face holds, but Victor knows well enough the meaning behind it is empty. "I have your dinner." He slides two bowls through the bars. One is filled to the brim with miso soup. "I'm so sorry it was late. I had…here you go. Let me know if you like it."

Victor turns his entire body toward his captor. The pain in his head seems to subside with the promise of fresh food. A part of him wants to take the miso soup and splash it back into Yuri's face. But every time he intends to do harm to his captor, he can't bring himself to. The memories of that night at last year's banquet cloud his desire for revenge. His growling stomach only weakens his resolve. He takes the spoon from the soup, circles it around in the bowl and then gingerly brings it to his lips, blowing out the steam. He sucks it up. The flavor hits his taste buds instantly, and his stomach quells its complaints.

"Is it too hot?" Yuri asks, his face contorting into a grimace.

"No, it's perfect." Victor forgets about his predicament and savors another sip before reaching for what looks to be chicken or beef in the other bowl. He cuts it with the plastic fork. Shame it couldn't be a metal fork, but he understands that despite Yuri's _love_ for him, he's still taking precautions against Victor.

He opens his mouth and chews on the meat. It's not chicken or beef. It's tangier, but still has a strong taste to it. Maybe goat? At this point though, he'll eat anything available. Victor swallows and looks back at Yuri's gaze with a not-so forced smile. "Mmm."

Those dark eyes widen, as if all the worries in him have vanished. Victor wonders where within those eyes is the man he had met that night at the banquet. That sweet, innocent, sexy and alluring Yuri he had traveled so far to reunite with. While his mind tells him that person is a shadow, Victor cannot help but listen to his heart—somewhere that other Yuri still exists. Somewhere the fire that is Yuri Katsuki, the man who he loves, still burns.

He opens his mouth to say something.

"Oh, there's still some shōchū left!" Yuri jumps to his feet and rushes back up the stairs. Victor's attention shifts to Axel's sack, and he narrowly avoids choking. How could he have forgotten her so easily?

But he has no time to act since Yuri returns soon with a filled wine glass in hand.

Sadly, it's not water, but it's something. Victor eats quickly as a plan begins formulating in his head. Yuri Katsuki loves him, at least, he claims to. Maybe somehow he can convince him to release Axel and her family. He finishes, and Yuri offers a hand through the bars.

"Here," Yuri says, "let me take them."

He pushes them toward his captor. Yuri goes to stand, but an ache in Victor's chest tells him that as soon as he turns, Victor won't be able to pull his sanity back. If the younger man's attention returns to his other captives, Victor will be powerless to save them.

"Yuri," he says sharply. "Can I have water please?"

His captor's eyes watch him with deadly precision. For a split second, Victor fears he might have said the wrong thing. He's at Yuri's mercy after all. Anything he requests could be the end. On the other hand, he won't have a chance to save Axel's family if he doesn't risk his own safety. Victor's life has been cloaked in risk—both on the ice and off it.

After what feels like an eternity, Yuri walks over to a 24-pack of water and removes a bottle from it, leaving it inside the Russian's prison. Victor could have easily snatched Yuri's wrist and snapped it, but he doesn't want to think about the possibility of failing and igniting the younger man's anger. He needs to win Yuri's trust if he's to ever consider escape. He chugs the water bottle's entire contents and cracks the empty plastic. Never before has water tasted so fresh. Along with the meals, Victor perks up. Though the sting of his wounds lingers.

He wipes his mouth dry and tries his luck at gambling again. "And go to the bathroom?"

"What for?" Yuri's voice deepens.

"I need to pee and I'd like to use the shower." Honestly, he had used the bathroom—or what one could call a bathroom—earlier, but Victor is in desperate need of a shower. Warm shower. Cold shower. He doesn't care. As long as he can rid himself of some of this stank odor sticking to his skin. A shower would be a small yet welcome relief.

But his captor doesn't seem convinced. "Can't you use that?"

Victor peers over his shoulder for a moment to glance at the bucket. His spine chills and a feeling like a coil going taut forms in his stomach. His food threatens to rise back up but he holds himself together and returns to Yuri's gaze with a plea in his eyes. "Please, Yuri. You can…you can accompany me, if you want. I'd like that." Does he truly want Yuri to accompany him? No. But if it's a way to delay Axel's family's suffering then Victor will accept any sacrifice he must make to ensure their chances.

"Why would you want me there?" There's a bite in Yuri's tone as he watches his captive, perhaps searching for any sign of deception.

Victor needs a better excuse. He needs to reel Yuri into him. To make his love for Victor feel genuine. And Victor in return needs to act like he reciprocates this Yuri's feelings. He envisions the Yuri from the banquet. As his heart stutters, a thought comes to mind.

With as much sincerity as he can muster, Victor replies, "Because, ever since last year's banquet, I've always wanted to see you, Yuri."

Yuri cocks an eyebrow. "What?" His voice lightens. His shoulders relax.

Victor keeps going. He intends to reach for Yuri's hand, which sits just outside the bars, but the pain in his body keeps him frozen. Instead, he brings his fingers to his lips and traces the pink skin. "We kissed. You...we did things."

Yuri's mouth parts slightly. Even in the dim light, Victor can see the redness swell on his cheeks. "What kind of things?"

Soon, the images of that fantastic night flow back into him, and the Russian starts to forget the mortal danger both he and Axel's family are in. There's still a part of him that can't help but hope the Yuri he met that night is somewhere inside this being. Hibernating. Asleep until awoken by Victor's lips. He leans forward, disregarding the pain pulsating throughout his body. "I can show you," he says. "Just open the door first."

Yuri's defense seems to vacillate upon his words. Victor holds his gaze, believing that if he does so he stands a better chance. His tactic seems to be working when Yuri lifts the key to the keyhole, wedges it inside, and begins to turn the lock. Victor's heart pounds as he listens to the lock slowly click open.

A groan releases from a corner of the cellar.

Yuri stops, pulls the key out, and hops to his feet, alert. His attention turns to the man splayed out on the table. The darkness in his eyes manifests, and Victor knows he's lost his chance.

"I'm sorry, Victor," Yuri says, bowing his head, seemingly apologetic. "But I have to do something first. Just hold on a little longer."

A sharp "No!" develops in his throat, but the Russian is unable to release it. Instead, he lets out a stifled gasp, as Yuri gathers a dusty blanket from somewhere in the darkness and shakes it clean, letting dust particles fly everywhere, even into Victor's eyes. He covers the cage's door with it. When the Russian rubs the dirt from his vision, he notices that there's still plenty of space to see the man lying on the table, sprawled out as if he's been prepared for surgery.

Victor's stomach twists.

"Yuri," he tries to say, but his voice comes out barely more than a whisper. Yuri doesn't hear and steps toward another table with a set of supplies on it, including Victor's phone.

His phone…

"W-what the hell?" The man says in Japanese as he begins to come to and shakes his bonds. "Where am I?"

Victor opens his mouth, but fears that if he says something, Yuri might turn on him. He bites back a scream. If his experience and Axel's words have taught him anything, he knows what the younger man intends to do. His victim has been stripped of all his clothes and restrained like he's an animal ready for tanning.

A bright light burns his eyes. Victor recoils behind the blanket for support, waiting for his vision to adjust to the sudden shift. With one eye squinted shut, he continues to watch through the other half-open one at the macabre sight that's steadily unfolding.

It looks like an operation that's about to go horribly wrong. Yuri snaps a pairs of rubber gloves across either wrist. A sidelong grin forms on his face.

The man continues to thrash and jerk, searching for any method of escape. Victor knows his chances are slim.

Something shimmers in their captor's hand—Victor's skate. Something else flicks open and closed in Yuri's other hand, but it's too hard to identify against the bright light.

"Good morning, Takeshi," Yuri's voice comes out low and coolly. He finally puts a name to his captive. "I'm glad you enjoyed dinner." He raises a hand and turns the light ninety-degrees to shine onto the four potato sacks.

Victor chokes back his food from rising.

The grin on Yuri's face thickens as Takeshi's eyes widen.

"I hope you have room for more." His attitude and his voice sound like they belong to someone else. "Do you remember when we were kids, Takeshi?" he asks, lifting the small piece of metal in his other hand. When the flame flickers on, Victor realizes it's a lighter. Yuri hovers the skate over the flame. The silver blade begins to glow yellow from the heat. "Remember that time you pushed me to the ground, and my head cracked open, and you called me a pussy for crying?"

"Y-Yuri, what are you—?" Takeshi tries wiggling away from the flame. "Where am I?"

"Do you?" Yuri insists.

"Yuri, where are my kids _—_?" A howl erupts from his mouth, and he jerks his head back, over the edge of the table. His back arches as Yuri sinks the blade into his chest. Takeshi's brow becomes laden with sweat.

" _Do_ you?" He begins tracing the blade across the larger man's abdomen, creating an incision.

"S-stop," Takeshi gasps, but he's interrupted by yet another howling cry that pierces Victor's ears and makes his cage rattle.

A metallic odor enters Victor's nose, and he cringes. His eyes glance at the corner where the four potato sacks wiggle. The rest of Axel's family is coming to.

"I'd like to show you my newest routine. Shall I practice it using your body as the rink?" Yuri suggests, still encased in his trance. Not even Takeshi's cries or pleas can will him out of whatever mindset he's fallen into. "I'm thinking of adding some quads to it. Watch." He continues running the blade across the other man's body, turning and twists it in accordance with his aforementioned routine. Yuri hums a soft tune to himself beneath Takeshi's wild cries. Streams of blood run down his victim's stomach, dripping onto the floor. Something else drips along with it—Takeshi's tears.

"P-please," he begs. "Please tell me…where are my girls?"

"First, are you willing to admit what you did to me?" Yuri asks. "I have you to thank, Takeshi. If not for your…influence, I may never have realized what I'm truly passionate about." A vulpine smile crawls up his face.

Takeshi shakes his head. "I don't…understand."

His captor halts the blade for a moment. "I guess I'll have to practice my routine a little more before you'll talk." He saws the blade into the man's skin, much like how he had with Victor. Takeshi gasps, howls, cries, anything vocally to somehow nullifying the obvious pain he's in.

The four sacks nearby wiggle in futile attempts to escape. Axel and her sisters begin crying, aware of their father's plight but also possibly anticipating their own outcome.

It's like watching a movie unfold. Beyond Victor's bars sits the television screen. His mouth hangs open. Tears swell in his eyes. He wants to look away. But the longer he watches, the weaker his willpower becomes. Every time he tries to speak, the words catch in his throat like phlegm. Seeing Takeshi on display, being gutted like a pig, reminds him of his own torture session. Flashbacks fog his judgment. Yuri's low, demanding voice only strengthens the images.

After what could be an eternity, Yuri lifts the bloodied blade from Takeshi's body. "Are you willing to confess now?"

Takeshi's labored breaths answer him for a time. "Yuri…tell me what I did wrong."

The younger man's eyes widen briefly before his smile turns downward. "That day at the ice rink. Inside the locker room. We were kids. You brought your entourage with you. One had a lighter. The other had a taser. And all you had to use was your…" He chokes back the rest of the sentence. Even in the bright light, Victor can see their captor's eyes water. His face wrinkles, and he swirls around to face the wall. "You broke me that day," Yuri reveals, as if releasing years of repressed memories. "You shattered everything that I was." When he finally finds the strength to turn back, Victor is reminded of why he has been kept in this cellar for so long. "You took everything from me." He saunters over to the sack farthest to the left, unhooks it from it's perch, and unfolds the top to reveal the face of a young woman in her early to mid-twenties with brown eyes and umber hair.

"Y-Yuko." Takeshi jerks against his bonds helplessly. "Not my wife, please."

A knot twists in Victor's stomach.

Her eyes begin to water. A sharp scream almost finds its way out of her throat, but Yuri silences her by grabbing a clump of her hair in his hand and jerking her head back. Looking back to the married man, he says, "Now I'm going to take everything from you."

In the next moment, he glides the blade across her neck from ear to ear, severing everything in between smoothly, as if her neck is made from paper. A torrent of thick blood pours down, staining her sack and the cold floor. Yuri releases his grip, and Takeshi's wife drops to the floor, face first. A dark pool births from beneath her quivering form. A cacophony of screams burst from Takeshi's immobile body in a futile attempt to lunge at her killer.

Yuri stands, stretches, as if he's just run a marathon, and looks back at his captive with a childish grin. "Don't worry, Takeshi," he says. "This isn't nearly as bad as what I plan to do to you or your daughters."

Victor can't hold his food any longer. He reaches for the bucket and barely makes it in time to vomit. This isn't a movie. Underneath the stench of waste, he catches a metal tang. He feels like he's about to pass out, and he's not even the one being tortured.

When he forces himself to look this time, Yuri has opened the next sack to reveal the weeping face of Axel's sister. Although his eyes are partially blinded, Victor catches a glimpse of the light blue scrunchy in her hair. She can't be older than six or seven. Shock has taken ahold of her. She stares down at her mother's corpse lying facedown on the concrete floor, her eyes bulge against the powerful light. Her mouth gapes open in silent horror.

"I'll ask you again, Takeshi," Yuri says slowly, bringing the skate's blade to the little girl's throat like he had with her mother. "What did you do to me that day in the locker room? What did you do?" He clenches her scrunchy in his hand and digs the blade into the side of her neck. A stream of blood slips down. "What…did you _do_?"

"I didn't do _ANYTHING_ —! I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE _SAYING_ —! LET HER GO! LET HER GO! LETHERGOLETHERGO—!"

Yuri sighs and buries the blade so deeply into her neck that he's narrowly avoided beheading her. Her eyes dull against the bright light. As her body falls forward, Yuri releases her hair, the scrunchy remaining in his hand. He examines it curiously. He brings the scrunchy to his nose and inhales. Tears flow fast down his cheeks. He sinks into a fetal position, hovering over the child's still twitching form as Takeshi's cries of rage, agony, and despair encompass the basement.

Beneath his soft weeping and a father's plaintive cries, comes a feeble, almost desperate voice. Yuri's head lifts, and his eyes leer at Takeshi. "Unforgivable," he mumbles, coming back to standing. "It's unforgiveable what you've done to me. You sick fuck. You pretend to be a family man. You pretend to be reformed. You moved on from the past without a care, leaving me behind—broken by your taint. The only way for me to get you back was to pretend like you. To _forget_ what you did to me. Forget that you violated me again and again. Forget that you left me cold and naked. Forget that you had done everything in your power to humiliate me and never asked for forgiveness." He wipes his face, seemingly trying to erase any reflection of his past. "That's why I'm doing this. That's why you deserve nothing but what you're getting right now. Because bastards like you don't deserve mercy. Not after depriving me of the one thing I held most dear—my purity."

Victor feels every word sink into him like a tattoo. Wetness hits his hand, and he glances down to see a drop of water. He brings his fingers to his eyes, tracing his waterline and discovering the row of tears. The words sink deeper, nearly drowning him. The fact that they were spoken through Yuri's voice doesn't help the matter. The Russian lurches forward, anticipating another vomiting session. Everything in him hurts. Not just the lacerations. _Everything_. He can't fight back his emotions from prying through. He lets his head drop, his silver bangs drip over his eyes like curtains, and he begins to weep.

It is during this time that Yuri reveals his next victim to Takeshi—his second daughter, identical to his first, apart from the pink hair decoration. Instead of slitting her throat, he supplants that method with strangulation, cutting her airwaves until there's nothing left for oxygen to move through. Victor briefly sees her face turn purple before she joins her mother and sister on the floor. Only when Yuri finally reaches Axel's sack and unfolds the opening over her shoulders to reveal the same identical face, does Victor find some forgotten strength.

"Yuri," he croaks. "Yuri. Yuri, stop. _Please_!"

But Takeshi aggressively wails over him. Victor's voice melts into the background as Yuri drags the girl over to her father and presents her in front of his face. He places the blade down on Takeshi's bloodied stomach and removes the lighter from his pocket. He flicks it on and moves it toward Axel's eye.

"D-DON'T—!"

"Shut up," he hisses, kicking the table.

Takeshi somehow quells his manic cries just enough for Yuri to speak clearly and undisturbed. "I want to hear you say it. Confess what you did to me. Maybe then I'll only blind one of her eyes." He inches the flame closer to her eyeball, and Axel tries to wiggle from his firm grip in order to avoid the heat.

"I…okay," Takeshi breathes, his chest rising up and down in quick succession. The skate rolls off and clatters onto the floor. "I confess to everything. Now, let her go. Let my baby go."

Yuri's eyes widen. The water returns in them, and his grip loosens around Axel's neck. She falls into the puddle of blood but doesn't scream. Shock seems to have transferred its powerful grip onto her, refusing to let her go.

Although he has witnessed three murders, somehow Victor knows Yuri's bloodlust has wavered since hearing the exact words he has yearned to hear for so long finally come out of Takeshi's mouth.

Their captor teeters. He catches himself on Takeshi's table before he can collapse. "That…is all I wanted. Thank you, Takeshi." A warm smile forms across his face. He flicks the lighter shut and pockets it before collecting the skate on the floor but ignoring Axel in the process.

Her father's expression appears hopeful.

Yuri's smile remains as he sticks the pick-end of the skate into Takeshi's stomach and savagely stabs away until blood gushes from all sides—staining his face, Takeshi's face, the floor, and the walls. Even Victor feels a few droplets sprinkle onto him. Yuri tugs at the loose skin and pulls out entrails, letting them hang over the side of the table. He seems to be searching for something within the layers of fat and organs. Soon, Takeshi's body stops moving. His eyes are wide in death and blood bubbles from his gaping mouth. Yuri abandons him and slides to the floor near Axel. The skate slips out of his hand. He pulls off the rubber gloves, tucks his legs against him, and wounds his arms around him legs. He doesn't bother to clean his stained glasses as he starts wailing. The tears do the job for him.

Eventually, the bright light flashes off. Yuri scans the room, drinking in the carnage, but he doesn't bother cleaning up anything. Instead, he picks up Axel with gentle hands and cradles her in his arms as he ascends the stairs. Both of them are cloaked in a sea of red. Perhaps he's saving her for later. Or perhaps he has taken pity on the child. It's unclear.

Victor leans against the cage. He had let four people die, and the surviving one is drenched in her family's blood. Another pain hits him between the eyes. The headache comes back in full force. Maybe it senses the negative emotions rising up within his core.

He presses his forehead against the cage, hoping to somehow block out everything that's happened as well as the ache in his cranium.

The cage jerks forward.

Victor raises his head. Out of curiosity, he brings his hand up and pushes it against the metal door.

It opens.


	7. Chapter 7

7\. Yuri - IV

* * *

Yuri places the catatonic child down on the floor of his bathroom. He had intended to save her father for last, but his confession came prematurely, and now Yuri has no idea what to do with her. Unlike before, when in the presence of her father, he doesn't have the will to kill her. It would certainly be easier than keeping her around though.

But the longer he looks down at her dull eyes, the more he can't bring himself to take her life. All of his hatred for the last decade and a half of his life has been toward her father. And while Yuri can see his features linger on her face, he refuses to wring her neck and sever her ties with this world.

Instead, he gathers a couple of towels, placing one onto the toilet seat and spreading the other out across the tile floor. Then he starts a warm bath and unfolds the stained potato sack completely from around Axel's body. He expects her to run, but she doesn't. The blood on her face and in her hair has crusted over, turning dark. She keeps her gaze low, staring into nothing. The amount of emotions swirling around inside her petite body must have broken her mind. Her body stands frozen. The only evidence that she's still living is the subtle rise and fall of her chest.

She's like a porcelain doll. Yuri has an urge to dress her up and put her into his sister's toy dollhouse. But he perishes the thought when he realizes he doesn't have any clothes for her to wear. A few small stains lurk on the collar of her sweater, but it's her face that's the real trouble. As long as he can wash out her hair, he should be safe until he can find her reasonable attire.

Yuri sighs and bends her over the side of the tub so her head hangs beneath the faucet. He pulls her purple hair decorations out and tosses them into the nearby trash bin. Even her sweater is purple. He has to chuckle at the color-coordination she and her sisters had followed so precisely up until recently.

She lets him tousle her hair under the water. Brownish-red swirls around in the tub and down the drain. Yuri makes sure to clean her well, practically drenching her hair. He wants the stench and the visible evidence of his revenge gone from her entirely.

Sacrificing some of his shampoo, he squirts a quarter-sized amount into his palm and lathers it into her scalp. The metallic tang in the air is quickly overshadowed by a fresh strawberry fragrance. Yuri also uses the time to clean his face and arms off. He'll be sure to take an all-body shower once he's done attending to the girl.

Axel never flinches for the entirety of her bathing session, even when it looks like some of the suds have drifted into her eyes. Yuri rinses the shampoo from her hair and face and turns the water off.

"Stand up," he says.

She obeys. Her hair is longer than he thought, reaching the middle part of her back. Her face remains indifferent.

Yuri wants to explain his reasoning to her. Why he had done what he had done. But he realizes it's pointless. Nothing will excuse what's happened, and the child will most likely let whatever he has to say fly over her head. So, Yuri grabs the towel on the toilet seat, stretches it out, and wraps it around her brown hair until it looks like an ice cream swirl on the top of her head.

"Are you hungry?"

No answer.

He leans over to make eye contact and waves a hand in front of her face. Perhaps that was a stupid question to ask. Food is the last thing she's thinking about right now—if she's even thinking.

He guides her back into the living room, but he can't leave her here unattended when the front door is right there for her to escape, and he can't leave her in his room, where his personal belongings rest, nor his sister's room for obvious reasons. Ms. Minako may be conscious by now. Yuri growls, remembering he still has to deal with her. He'll need to take a shower swiftly and form a feasible plan. And, of course, he needs to attend to Victor at some point and clean up the cellar.

So many projects have gathered on his plate. He feels more anxious than when he is about to step onto the ice to perform. But Yuri needs to take everything one step at a time least he lose his mind completely.

He finds an emptied coat closet. His chest twists as he recalls a time when he was a kid and his father shoved him inside, locked the door, and left him there for about an hour. Yuri cried and banged on the door in a helpless attempt to escape his dark and cramped timeout. But his father yelled at him to shut up. So he listened, sat down on the floor, took in the smell of leather around him, and wiped his tears away. Only when he had quieted down did his father unlock the door and let him out.

It should be a sufficient place to keep Axel while he showers. Yuri gently but firmly pushes her into the closet, unwrapping the towel from her head and letting her damp hair hang free. He closes the door and fetches the key to lock it in a nearby nightstand that sits between his sister's room and his room as décor.

After he retrieves it, Yuri presses his ear up to his sister's door and listens for the slightest muffled cry. He can't detect anything and thus assumes Ms. Minako is still stuck in her half-drunk, half-drugged induced sleep. At least that gives him some time to contemplate what to do with her. Maybe the shower can help straighten his thoughts.

He locks the closet and sighs, exhaling some tension. Before returning to the bathroom, Yuri glances at the clock. It's half-past eleven. The entire...situation (for lack of better words) in the cellar only lasted a half hour, and Axel's bathing session lasted just as long.

Yuri licks his lips as he peels off his dirty clothing and rolls them up. Such a shame he has to waste a good sweater, jeans, and socks. But, for his own protection, it's necessary to get rid of them. He finds a plastic bag in the kitchen and shoves all of the evidence into it. He ties the loops together and disposes the bag into the garbage. Seeing those clothes disappear beneath plastic and feeling the cold air on his naked skin sends a thrilling chill down his spine. He reenters the bathroom, leaving the door open just in case of an emergency. He turns the nozzle so the shower starts.

Yuri wedges his thumbs in between the elastic part of his boxers. The one benefit of jeans is that his boxers have no visible stains. He doesn't have to get rid of them. Good. He's always liked them. They have cute, little pig faces. The innocence reminds him of childhood.

He drops them on the toilet seat and enters the tub. The hot water sends goosebumps across his skin, and Yuri breathes a long sigh of relief as instant gratification hits him. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes, running the water over his face and hair. He combs his fingers through any tangles, feeling the blood wash away and dissolve into nothing more than a disturbed memory.

He squirts a quarter-sized amount of shampoo into his hand and lathers it into his skull, feeling the liquid substance transform into bubbly, white suds between his fingers, erasing the evidence further.

No more Takeshi. No more repressed memories. No more need to hide inside himself like a caged bird. For the first time in a long time, he feels so _free_.

Hotness grows around his face, and Yuri knows it's not because of the warm water. His face scrunches up, and he leans against the shower wall while his hands keep him steady. Another crying session follows, but it's one of necessity not of weakness. It's been boiling up inside him since as long as he can remember. And when the tears flow out, they release all the pain he has kept hidden away beneath his exterior. His father and sister's deaths were the beginning—the vanguard of what Yuri's capabilities are. But he had been saving his real animosity for Takeshi for the last decade and a half of his life. And now that the man who ruined him and kept their secret in the dark is gone, Yuri can finally start thinking about the future for once.

It seems surreal.

The future.

Victor…

Together…

Some days he still wonders if he's dreaming. But every time he opens the basement and looks into Victor's room, he knows those crystal orbs staring back at him are genuine.

Yuri feels the heat in his face drift downward. He leans off the wall and assess the erection growing between his thighs. He can't recall the last time he's gotten so hard so quickly—the mere thought of a future with his silver-haired prince has turned him to this.

He first waits to see if it'll go away on it's own. When it doesn't, Yuri coils his fingers around his shaft and slowly begins rubbing it in a back and forth motion. His thumb slides over the head, making his heart stutter. Yuri gasps as he circles his thumb around the sensitive, pink skin. The blood pumps harder inside his loins. The mixture of pre-cum and running water moistens his fingers. Tightness builds in his belly as his strokes grow in speed and strength.

He closes his eyes again and imagines his hand is Victor's. His thumb is the prince's tongue, teasing Yuri's erection and mind. He's looking up at the younger man with a mischievous expression. God, he is so beautiful and sexy and perfect all wrapped into one.

He takes a break in between to ask, "Do you want me?"

 _Yes_. _Oh, yes._

Victor snickers and opens his mouth, taking all that Yuri is into him, and Yuri feels him hit the back of his prince's throat. It's hot inside his mouth. The heat encompasses his cock, sending bolts of euphoria up and down his spine. He bites his lip, drawing blood, and jerks his head back to stifle a moan. But the more powerful Victor's imaginary tongue becomes, the weaker Yuri's resolve is. Nothing in the world has ever made him this way.

He can feel his fingers comb through his prince's silver mane, clenching a fistful and thrusting against Victor's movements until he builds up a sufficient rhythm. Yuri's pleasure spikes. He's near the edge. He knows he's close. Closer...

"Oh, God. _Victooor_!"

He releases all that he has within a series of violent bursts, making his mind hazy and his knees buckle. Yuri catches himself on the shower curtain before he can fall over. His hand has been cloaked in a thick layer of sticky, white come. Out of curiosity, he brings it to his nose and smells. This is what the mere thought of Victor has done to him. Just thinking about what would happen if Victor had really given him service sends Yuri's mind into frenzy.

It has been a long time since he's felt this way. His nights spent masturbating to Victor's image gave him brief satisfaction, but not enough. This release is different. It's helped him think—emptied his mind of all the unwanted thoughts that try to blur his rationality. The seed of bitterness has withered and died inside him. A new seed supplants it and a sapling forms, granting him newfound clarity.

He decides that he's going to stop killing.

Yuri washes both his hand and his stomach off underneath the shower, scrubs himself clean with a loofa, and finally turns the water off. Drawing the curtain, he grabs the towel and pats himself dry. The steam from the hot water has fogged the bathroom mirror.

 _Yuri_.

Yuri's heart stutters, but he tries to ignore the voice.

 _Yuri_.

He shakes his head. Why can he still hear the voice so clearly? Had he not caused enough bloodshed today? He thought once Takeshi had been taken care of this side of him would be satisfied and quietly dissolve into nothing. But it seems not even killing the worst man in Yuri's life will suffice the voice's hungry call.

Still, he tries to fight its lure. Tonight has been a victory for the most part, and Yuri is pleased with his decision to leave this life of recklessness behind him as easily as he had left his skating career behind.

 _Yuri_.

"I'm not listening to you anymore."

But it persists. _Yuri._

He drops the towel and claps his hands around his ears, hoping to somehow zone out the voice from invading his purified mindset. "Get out of my head." He hums a tune to overpower its intensity.

 _I'm still here._

 _"_ Get out!"

 _Why should I? Don't you love me_?

Yuri lowers his hands and swipes one across the fogged mirror to see his face in the reflection. Dark circles hover below his eyes. He's forgotten the last time he had slept. His gaze lowers to his trembling hands. Clenching them into fists does nothing to quell them. When he looks back up at himself, he nearly falls over from the sight.

A thick layer of blood covers his face, dripping off his chin and into the sink. Initially, Yuri believes it belongs to Takeshi until he notices it's spilling out from his tear ducts, nostrils, and ears. A satanic grin crawls up his reflection's face, stabbing him with as much intensity as a knife.

Yuri switches on the faucet and vigorously washes his face to eliminate the horror. He raises his head back to his reflection. No blood. He assesses his eyes, nose, and ears for any bleeding but finds none. The image has him reeling. His breathing and heart need a few painful moments to return to their normal speeds. Yuri runs a hand down his face for safe measure. His palm is clean. His face is clean. It's his mind that's been damaged.

 _No more killing_ , he thinks. _No more._

But it seems the more he tries to convince himself, the stronger the voices in his head attempt to sway him back into their clutches. They push and pull, jostling him like a crowded subway train. Everyone moves with the crowd, and Yuri is stuck as the oddity out trying to push his way through to no avail. He can see the door of sanity, but the sea carries him farther away from it. And as Yuri fights, he feels his resolve weaken.

 _No, not like this_.

Yuri leans off the sink and finishes drying himself. He grabs his boxers and lifts them over his thighs and snaps the elastic around his waist again. Then he hangs up his towel on the rack and exits the bathroom.

He heads across the living room, passing the area where the Nishigori family had their final meal together. He passes the closet where he's locked Axel in and wraps his fingers around the doorknob, checking to make sure it's still locked. It is. Sated, he heads down the hallway to his room, passing his sister's room, which he also checks to satisfy his paranoia. Again, it's locked. He passes the basement door, which he is surprised to see he has left slightly ajar.

Yuri furrows his brow. No, he's sure he closed it as he always has.

He opens it and examines the long, dark stairway. A foul odor hits him—one he hadn't noticed before. His nose scrunches, and he swiftly shuts the door. It's at that moment an incredible force slams across his head, knocking the wind out of him. His back hits the ground, and his entire face feels hot, as if it's been dipped in a steaming pot. A throbbing ache grows rapidly within his crown. Hot blood drizzles down his face. This time, he _knows_ it's real.

Someone looms over him.

Another attack is sure to come, so Yuri rolls and scurries to his feet before more damage can be done. He stumbles for a few steps in a web of disorientation, but catches himself before tripping. The figure before him is around his height, maybe a few inches taller. Eyes like crystals. Hair as thick as a silver stallion's man. A face that could rival an angel's. Yuri wants to believe it's impossible. He's dreaming. He's hallucinating again. But no amount of disbelief can dissolve the features that only belong to Victor Nikiforov.

In his hand sits Yuri's skate—well, _Victor's_ skate—the one Yuri had used to kill Axel's family with. Yuri brushes his fingers across the gash on his head and feels the small flap of skin hanging off. It reminds him of when Takeshi had pushed him and busted his skull open when they were kids. However, this feeling is different. Fear or contempt don't grip him. Regret does. If he hadn't tortured Victor, the man he loves wouldn't be standing across the hallway with a weapon in his hand, intent on striking Yuri as many times as necessary with it.

And yet, the thought of dying at Victor's hands doesn't seem all that disheartening. If anything, it brings him relief. Not only can he halt the voices in his from taking over, but he can also die knowing Victor is the one to silence them for him. A warm smile stretches across his face, and he closes his eyes as Victor advances toward him.

"W-what the hell are you doing?" Victor asks.

"I'm letting you kill me."

"Just like that?"

Yuri reopens his eyes. "You're the only one who can."

The silver-haired prince lowers his weapon. "I don't get it. You killed that family with such cruel intent. And now you're willing to just throw your life away?"

But Yuri shakes his head. "I'm not killing anymore. I'm done listening to these voices in my head. I'm done, Victor. I'm done."

The ire in Victor's eyes simmers. The veins in his wielded arm disappear. "You know you can't go on like this. You're a murderer."

"I know," Yuri says, nodding.

"People will find out."

"I know."

"I can call the police."

Yuri nods again. "True. But I can't live my life behind bars. Something's going to give. I've calmed the voices for the moment, but they'll be back. I can feel them, Victor." His emotions start prying through. His head throbs. "They're like parasites crawling under my skin. They burrow into my brain, telling me to do things I know are evil, but I can't deny them." He vigorously wipes the tears away, catching blood on his hands as well. "You're the only one who can save me. One quick swipe of the blade on your skate and everything will be done and over with. You can return home, return to competing. You can forget what's happened here. What I've done to you." He sniffs, but forces the rest out. "You can forget me."

"Yuri," Victor says.

"Please, Victor."

His eyes widen, as if he has found something he's been searching for for an eternity. "Is that you? _You_ , you?"

Yuri blinks.

Victor lets the weapon slip from his fingers. "Do you remember, Yuri?" he asks, taking a few slow steps toward him. "Do you remember that night at the banquet? We danced, we kissed, we…you lit up my world in only a few hours." He reaches for his cheek. His hand's cold, and Yuri tenses but doesn't reject his touch. Their faces come within a few inches of each other. "You made me fall in love with you from the moment I met you."

Yuri's lips part. Victor brushes the tears and blood away, nullifying the throbbing in Yuri's head. Then his thumb traces Yuri's bottom lip, and the silver prince leans forward and kisses him.

It's like electrical sparks through his system. Yuri wounds his arms around the Russian's neck and pulls him deeper into the kiss, breathing in his scent. He wants Victor to himself. No, he wants Victor to trap him in his web. Every part of him is now available to be taken by his silver-haired prince.

His back hits the wall with force. Despite the brief sting of pain, Yuri knows it's a sign of endearment and not of violence. Victor's clearly just as eager as he is to have him. They start prying at each other's clothes, seeing who can undress the other one faster. It's like a game. Yuri smiles in between their locked lips and hears a moan release from Victor's throat as his hand traces the Russian's bulge.

The silver-haired prince wins the stripping contest since all Yuri has on are his boxers. But Yuri manages to pull Victor's shirt off and unzip his pants in that time.

Victor breaks away from the kiss. "I guess you could say I'm victorious."

Yuri stifles a laugh and buries his face into Victor's shoulder, planting soft kisses along his porcelain skin. He traces his fingers across the bandaged wound on his chest. His stomach churns. "I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry."

Victor lifts his chin so their gazes match. "Don't be."

But Yuri can't let this go. "Does it still hurt?"

"No."

"Liar." He can see the lingering pain in his eyes. "I should…I mean, you should at least do something about it."

Victor taps their foreheads together and shushes him. "I'm fine, Yuri."

Yuri rejects the attempted kiss that Victor initiates. If they're to continue this, they need to be on equal footing. He walks over and picks up the skate from the floor. Then he presents it to his love. "I want to share your pain. Please, strike me anywhere you see fit."

Victor stands there like a statue. His mouth hangs open, and his eyes bulge. He shakes his head. "Yuri. No."

"Yes, Victor," he insists.

Victor reluctantly accepts the weapon and his eyes scan up and down Yuri's naked form, drinking in his body. Yuri feels a slight chill of nervousness. To be completely bare in front of the love of his life funnels every innocent and embarrassing thought into his brain—Does he have baby fat anywhere? Does he smell okay? Does Victor notice the awkward moles down south? Is he too _small_?

He fights them off and returns to the task, opening his arms. "Do it, Victor. I want you to." His eyes close, and he waits patiently for the sharp pain to hit him again and to feel Victor's revenge across his skin.

Something thuds.

Yuri's eyes fly open. He instantly knows where the sound came from. Victor seems to have heard it, too.

"What was that?" He looks back at the younger man.

Yuri swallows. "That…is another obstacle."

Victor's brow rises, and his grip on the skate tightens. "Axel?"

"No," Yuri says, redressing himself into his boxers and heading to his sister's door. "Not Axel." He unlocks it with the key he has wedged in between the door's hinges and pushes it open.

Ms. Minako struggles on the bed, still in her restraints. Her wet eyes lock onto Yuri. He can hear her muffled cries beneath the tap around her mouth.

Victor looks over his shoulder. "Yuri, what is—?"

"I thought she'd tell someone. I tried to kill her." He nods to the red marks around her neck. "But I couldn't. She's one of the few people I can't kill."

"You need to let her go." Victor weaves around him and starts toward her.

Yuri grabs his wrist. "She'll call the police."

Ms. Minako shakes her head as if to say she won't, but Yuri knows better than to trust her.

"Then what do we do?" Victor asks.

Yuri gives him a meaningful look. A question flows into his mind. It's easily the most invaluable question he's ever conjured in his entire life. "Do you love me, Victor?"

"Of course."

Yuri slides his hand down and squeezes his lover's armed hand. "Then kill her for me."


	8. Chapter 8

8\. Victor - IV

* * *

Victor can't believe it. Yuri has always been so thorough whenever he comes down here, and yet he's not only left Axel's entire family lying dead in pools of their own blood, but he has also left the cage unlocked.

He carefully but firmly pushes it open, hearing the familiar screech its hinges make, and slips out.

Freedom. This should be a dream, but the throbbing ache throughout Victor's body reminds him that it's not. He goes to stand but struggles. His knees buckle, and he grabs the cage for support. He hasn't stood for what could very well be days, and that coupled with a lack of exercise and sleep has reduced his strength tremendously. His body no longer feels like his own. It's as if his mind has been implanted into someone else.

The bandages across his skin stretch as he reaches his arm up to the top of the cage to help lift him. Victor winces. The raw flesh underneath begins to tear. Without proper medical treatment, he can only hope his body's natural immune system and regeneration powers will kick in and mend the wounds.

When he does find some upright stability, Victor reaches out and gropes the darkness, searching for anything else he can lean against for additional support. His goal is to reach the table with his phone.

The smell of entrails and waste mingles in the air—the fact that he's been living down here for this long baffles him. Victor has to get out. He has to grab his phone. He has to call the police. Someone. _Anyone_. He needs to hear from the outside world.

He teeters for a moment and then pushes himself off the cage, waving his hands blindly through the air for anything. His eyes haven't adjusted enough and can only see subtle outlines and shadows in this dense blackness.

His fingers brush something hard, and Victor clings to what feels like a wooden pillar used to support the house. His heart pounds so fast that his neck pulses. The table, based on his perspective from inside the cage, should be very close. One hand reaches out again into nothing. Victor takes a few cautious steps until his hip runs into the corner of the table.

A sharp pain surges through him. The corner of the table had hit the bandage around his thigh. A sickness boils in his stomach. Victor leans and closes his eyes to keep anything from spilling out. He had already lost the majority of his dinner. He can't afford to lose anything else. A dizzy spell nearly has him on the floor. But Victor prevails and feels around for his phone.

His fingers touch objects he isn't sure about or frankly _wants_ to know about. Each time they trace something that may be a torture device, a sting penetrates his chest. How many lives has Yuri taken? How many more lives does he intend on taking unless someone stops him?

 _Axel_.

Victor doesn't want to assume what Yuri may be doing to her right now. The poor thing had to witness her entire family's murder. How much more is Yuri willing to do to her?

The Russian pulls himself together long enough to continue his blind search. His foot steps in water and instantly recoils. Although the stench of his excrements is stronger, Victor knows from the metal tang it's not water that he's stepped into. A cold sweat trickles down the nape of his neck.

Still, his hands do their duty until he finally grasps something that feels like his phone. His thumb traces the familiar case—a poodle dog that he had specially ordered online a few months ago in honor of Makkachin's fifteenth birthday. The texture is soft and velvety.

Victor eventually feels around for the "Home" pad to open the phone. A bright light hits his eyes. He squints through it as the phone changes to the home menu. His heart skips with relief.

A flurry of text messages, missed calls, and new emails pop up. But Victor doesn't have time to sift through all of them.

As he's about to dial the police, a warning flashes on the screen:

" _Low battery. Please recharge your device_."

 _Damn. I have to hurry._

He opens the keypad but hesitates. What's the emergency number in Japan? Victor has never had a reason to call the Japanese police. His previous sojourns here were purely for sporting events. And if there was an issue, he usually had his publicist clear it up in his stead. He opens the phone's main web browser to punch in the numeral equivalent of 9-1-1 in the United States and 1-0-2 in Russia.

" _No internet access_."

" _Fuck_!" Victor runs a hand down his face to calm his nerves. _Okay, think Nikiforov. What else can you do with no wifi and low battery_? He scrambles for some kind of plan. When one falls into his head, he returns to the keypad and punches in a phone number. The one intelligent thing he had done before arriving in Japan was purchase an international phone plan. Assuming a week hasn't gone by yet, he still has a chance to make a call.

The line beeps for a few painful seconds until a low voice answers, "Hello—"

" _Yakov_!" He claps his hand over his mouth briefly, remembering that his voice will carry. "It's Victor, I've—"

"—you have reached Yakov Feltsman. I can't come to the phone right now but leave your name and number and I'll get back to you when I can. Thanks."

His heart drops.

Of all the times that bastard doesn't pick up his phone, it's now. Victor watches the flashing red button on his screen and anticipates the phone to shut off any moment, which it's sure to. He has seconds to make a decision.

A new message appears, but it's not automated:

10:06 PM: Yurio: _Oi, whenever you decide to answer your fucking phone and stop being a ghost. Lemme know._

Victor seizes the opportunity. He writes a text message with all the necessary information, including the address to the hot springs. Then he snaps a picture and the room lights up for a split second, showcasing the macabre sight in front of him. He sends both in succession to Yurio before mumbling a soft prayer that the blonde boy will not mistake this as a jest.

The phone goes black. It's dead.

Victor has no time to grieve his brief reconnection with the outside world. He must press on. Feeling around for a weapon, his fingers finally trace the edge of his skate. The feeling of a weapon in his hands is both haunting and delightful. At least now he's able to protect himself. But Victor's no fighter. He's never come close to a fight in his entire life. He may be muscular, but he's also docile. Muscles are meaningless if one doesn't know how to properly wield them.

Still, he grips the skate and slides his other hand down the end of the table and across wood and concrete until he runs into the stairs, tripping. Pain bites at his body, but a rush of adrenaline briefly nullifies it.

He begins his ascent…

Each step is taken with careful precision. Whenever he hears a creak, his chest tightens, and he recoils a foot until he can find enough courage to try again. The ascension feels longer with painful bolts riding up and down his spine. Victor takes a moment midway up to rest. He can see the cracks of light between the doorframes. Even though the light's artificial, it's one step closer to freedom.

He reaches out and touches the wood. It's surprisingly warm. He turns the doorknob. His heart's in his throat as it opens and the light grows. A drop of hope falls into him. But that drop swiftly evaporates when Victor catches a glimpse of something. He retreats into the basement, not closing the door all the way. He uses the small niche to eavesdrop.

Yuri still cradles the child in his arms. A wave of relief swells in Victor, but he can't depend on that small amount of consolation to help. He watches the younger man saunter out of sight, taking his blood-soaked baggage with him. A few minutes later, the sound of running water hits his ears.

Victor pauses.

Water. Blood.

 _He's drowning her_!

He bursts the door open but trips in his attempt to run, falling to the floor with a loud thud. Pain cascades over him, paralyzing him for several seconds. Then his adrenaline kicks back in as he waits to hear the water abruptly stop and footfalls approach. But nothing changes. Yuri must not have heard.

Victor winces, cupping his chest bandage under his shirt and heaving. Beneath it, he can feel the flesh tear and the wound ooze. He can also feel the edge of the bandage on his thigh has started peeling off. It seems like the world is against him despite seeing the door to the outside only a few lengths away. Victor hoists himself back up with support from the wall. Gripping the skate still, he ambles toward freedom.

Before his hand can touch the knob, a thought crosses his mind:

 _Axel_.

He can't leave her to die.

But freedom's right here.

Victor hesitates. It seems the more he retreats from the doorknob, an inexplicable force tries to pull him back. He can leave this hellhole behind. Drop the skate. Make a break for the nearest neighbor's house. Call the police properly this time. Send Yuri to jail. Relieve himself of these horrors he's witnessed and avenge Axel's family.

But he can't.

Axel needs him now.

And he's already dawdled enough to assume that Yuri's taken her life. But Victor has to see that he has.

He ambles across the living room, remembering how he stepped into this place the first time with Makkachin, with all of the naivety in the world. He had trusted a stranger and ignored his faithful companion's warning. Victor has only himself to blame for what's happened. If not for him, Makkachin would still be alive.

But he can't fixate on that right now. Victor follows the sound of running water, rounds a corner, and notices a closed door. The water's sound comes from behind it.

As his heart practically leaps from his chest, Victor wounds his finger around the doorknob. It's cold. His mind fogs like the dashboard of a hot car on a frigid day. His other hand squeezes the weapon. Is he truly ready to kill someone? And not just anyone, but _Yuri Katsuki_? The man he had traveled thousands of miles to see after planning for months. The man who had turned his lonely life upside down in one fated night. The man who still holds a grip on his heart despite all the heinous atrocities he's committed over the past few days. Even if his willpower is capable, is Victor strong enough to take him on? Yuri has weakened him, practically disabled him. Pulses of pain continue to peck at the Russian. There's little hope he may be able to get out of this fight without a few more injuries.

But once he finds his courage, he turns the knob and realizes it's been locked from the inside.

Should he knock?

No. If he's learned anything about Yuri in the last few days, it's that he'll come out of the bathroom armed and ready. And Victor would have stupidly revealed himself and ruined everything.

He should run. Leave. Just like he had initially planned.

 _Forgive me, Axel_.

Victor fights the guilt once again and scrambles back to the living room. He reaches out to the door that leads to freedom, but it doesn't turn all the way. A knot forms in his throat.

It's locked. Of course it's locked.

He goes to the nearby window and fiddles with it, but it doesn't budge. A keyhole, that appears to have been recently drilled into the wood, sits on the windowsill. If Victor's to find some way out of this prison, the two most obvious choses he has are ineffective.

 _Can I break the window_? he wonders and notices a chair that may prove to be heavy enough to do just that. But Victor spends far too much time dabbling between whether he should take the risk or not. The sound will surely alert Yuri. Victor envisions the bathroom door flying open and the younger man stalking toward him, grabbing him before Victor has time to escape and dragging him back to his cage. But there must be a key or something to open the front door. Victor searches the kitchen and living room area carefully but without success. When he's about to head down the hallway, the sound of running water ceases.

The Russian scrambles to find cover. The best choice he has is the window curtain. He gathers the material but doesn't wrap too much around him for fear that Yuri might notice the oddity.

A door clicks open, which he assumes could only be the bathroom. Footfalls head across the living room floor. Victor clenches the skate in one hand, tempted to burst out and perform a surprise attack. But his primal fear holds him back. He waits and listens to another door creak open and close and the footfalls step away for a moment before returning.

His heart lurches. Has Yuri noticed him?

Something locks in place.

The footfalls backtrack across the living room floor and come to a pause somewhere in the kitchen area. Victor hears rustling, like a plastic bag has been opened. Unwanted thoughts come to his mind: Is Yuri shoving Axel's body into the bag? Is he going to chop her up first? Victor bites his gum. He apologizes again and again to the little girl for his failure to uphold his promise to save her. Another cold sweat trickles down his neck as he listens to something thud. The footfalls dissolve, and the sound of rushing water returns.

Victor peers out from his hiding spot. The bathroom door, which had been closed shut, has now been left open. A fog of steam emits from the room. Victor deduces that Yuri's taking a shower to wipe the blood off from killing Axel.

What should he do? Try to find another method of escape? Try to kill Yuri while he's preoccupied? Either choice would be a risk. But Victor has little motivation left. As he scans the perimeter of the living room and kitchen, Victor weighs his two options. It doesn't take long before a strange noise disrupts his thinking.

A moan.

Victor furrows his brows and tenses as the moans continue to rise over the loud torrent. They draw him closer to the open door. They grow hot and heavy and…familiar.

Suddenly, he's not in Yuri's house anymore. He's back at the banquet. He's back at that moment when he and Yuri are touching and kissing one another, ravishing each other's company and bodies. His hands are all over Yuri, and Yuri's hands are all over him. Victor takes a short breath under the passionate sounds coming out of the bathroom. He grows lightheaded from the mere thought of being back at that moment with Yuri. The skate's weight tempts him to let it go and attend to the swelling heat between his thighs.

And that's when he hears, "Oh, God. _Victooor_!"

"Yuri," he gasps and steps toward the door.

But something, whether it's adrenaline or his natural instinct, snaps him out of his erotic trance. He retreats to his hiding spot behind the curtain just as the running water stops.

Victor peeks through the shield of fabric to see Yuri exit the shower in nothing but boxer shorts. He combs his fingers through his damp black mane. His yellow skin is a lovely contrast against his hair color. His face has flushed from the shower's heat, and his breathing seems strained. God, he's still such a spectacle despite everything he's done. Victor observes the way his muscles flex and go taut. What he wouldn't give to touch them again, run his fingers across each and every curve. Then replace his fingers with his tongue. Lust almost gives away his position.

Victor shakes his head. _Stop_. _That's disgusting. Look what he's done to you, to Axel, to her family._

As Yuri saunters through the room, testing a couple of doorknobs, he seems to notice something out of place.

Victor's stomach drops. He forgot to close the basement door.

Yuri opens it, and the door blocks him from Victor's view.

Something inside the Russian screams. Again, he doesn't know what, but it propels him forward just as Yuri closes the door. He strikes the younger man over the head with the edge of the skate's blade. Not enough to kill him, but enough to make him stumble and fall.

Victor pauses, unsure whether he should attack again. The drops of blood across Yuri's face and on the floor cause him to freeze. He lingers too long. Yuri regains his footing and readies himself. The stance he takes begins defensively, but as Victor advances, Yuri's shoulders relax, his eyes close, and his arms lower. He's wide open to an attack.

No, this has to be a trick.

Victor halts and searches for anything on his captor's body that could be dangerous, but his search finds nothing. "W-what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm letting you kill me."

Victor's mouth drops. At first, he isn't sure if he's heard him correctly. "Just like that?"

Yuri's eyes reopen with warmth. "You're the only one who can."

Victor still isn't sure whether this is a fabrication or the truth. The tension in his body wavers. "I don't get it," he says. "You killed that family with such cruel intent. And now you're willing to just throw your life away?"

But Yuri shakes his head. "I'm not killing anymore. I'm done listening to these voices in my head. I'm done, Victor. I'm done."

The ire that once gripped him begins to loosen its hold over Victor. "You know you can't go on like this. You're a murderer."

"I know." Yuri nods, as if he understands but doesn't quite grasp the magnitude of what prison can do to him. He might just be saying that so Victor will lower his guard.

Victor thinks about the text message he had sent to Yurio. What if he's received it? What if he's contacted the authorities? "People will find out."

"I know."

Victor swallows a lump. "I can call the police." How can he? He doesn't even know the correct phone number.

"True," his captor says, nodding. His eyes lower to the floor. The light in them starts to flicker like a flame in the night. "But I can't live my life behind bars. Something's going to give. I've calmed the voices for the moment, but they'll be back. I can feel them, Victor." Tears well in his eyes. "They're like parasites crawling under my skin. They burrow into my brain, telling me to do things I know are evil, but I can't deny them," his voice cracks, and he wipes his face. "You're the only one who can save me. One quick swipe of the blade on your skate and everything will be done and over with. You can return home, return to competing. You can forget what's happened here. What I've done to you." He sniffs, and their gazes meet again. "You can forget me."

"Yuri." Victor feels a strong ache in his sternum.

"Please, Victor."

He can't do it. He can't live on knowing he's taken this man's life. The life of a man he truly loves. Victor can see him. The _real_ Yuri stands on the far end of a dark plateau, waiting for Victor. The Russian heads toward him, hoping to take him into his arms once more. "Is that you? _You_ , you?" The skate is no longer within his grasp. His only means of severing his ties with Yuri ends when the weapon touches the floor.

Yuri stiffens, staring at the ground where the skate rests.

"Do you remember, Yuri?" Victor's voice trills, and he clears his throat. "Do you remember that night at the banquet? We danced, we kissed, we…you lit up my world in only a few hours." He reaches his hand up and strokes Yuri's cheek. His skin is warm beneath Victor's touch. Yuri flinches from the contact but doesn't recoil, signaling an invitation. Victor draws his face closer to him. His breath tickles the Russian's face. "You made me fall in love with you from the moment I met you." He thumbs his cheek, feeling the heat grow across the younger man's face. He traces his captor's bottom lip. Victor leans in…

…and the memories of that night at last year's banquet are no longer wishful thinking.

They wound their arms around each other, pulling at their clothing, seeing who can best the other. Victor's heart throbs. His mind swims. His knees weaken. It's pure heaven being in Yuri's arms again. _His_ Yuri's arms. He manages to remove Yuri's clothes first, consisting of only his boxer shorts.

He smiles between their kiss and then breaks away. "I guess you could say I'm victorious."

Yuri's smell is all around him, and he shields his embarrassment by burrowing his face into Victor's shoulder. His kisses send goosebumps up and down the Russian's skin. "I'm sorry. I'm _so_ sorry."

"Don't be," Victor says, bringing his eyes back to him.

Yuri's lips tremble. "Does it still hurt?"

He realizes he's referring to the bandages. "No."

Yuri's brow furrows. "Liar. I should…I mean, you should at least do something about it."

"I'm fine, Yuri." He leans in again for another kiss, but this time Yuri recoils. Victor fears that he's losing him.

Yuri pushes away and collects the skate from the floor, offering it to him. "I want to share your pain. Please, strike me anywhere you see fit."

All the warmth inside of him drains. "Yuri. No."

"Yes, Victor."

The sickness returns to his stomach as he accepts the skate from his captor's hand. He wants to throw it across the room and break it. His eyes lower to Yuri's loins. As much as he wants to discard the weapon and push Yuri to the floor, ravishing his body, he can't help but feel something is missing. Everything's…too inconsistent.

"Do it, Victor," Yuri says. "I want you to." His eyes slowly close.

Victor's heart thunders in his chest. But before he can make any decision, something thuds. He surveys the sound's origin before his attention falls back to Yuri, whose expression darkens.

"What was that?" Victor's afraid of the answer.

"That…is another obstacle."

Victor instantly thinks of the only other possibility he knows of. "Axel?"

"No," Yuri says. He redresses into his boxers and heads over to a nearby door. "Not Axel." He fiddles with its lock and pushes it open.

Victor follows him inside. His heart instantly drops upon seeing the shivering mass splayed out on the bedspread. "Yuri, what is—?" He notices the restraints around her limbs and the red ring shaped like hands around her neck.

"I thought she'd tell someone. I tried to kill her," Yuri explains. "But I couldn't. She's one of the few people I can't kill."

"You need to let her go." Victor starts toward her, but Yuri grabs his hand.

His pupils dilate. "She'll call the police."

The woman struggles against her bonds to no avail.

The Russian searches for a solution. If they let her call the police, Yuri will be imprisoned. No, he'll kill himself before that happens. If they leave her, Victor will be walking away knowing he's let someone else's life fall from his hands. But he can't let Yuri die. That much is certain. He's come so far. They had a moment together that couldn't have been a dream. The way Yuri kissed him wasn't forced—there was passion behind each affectionate touch. But a sense of dread slips back into him as he asks, "Then what do we do?"

Yuri stares at him for what feels like an eternity. "Do you love me, Victor?" The question is asked very matter-of-factly.

A lump develops in the Russian's throat. Any sane man should say no, but Victor lost his sanity the instant he entered these walls. "Of course."

"Then kill her for me."

All feeling leaves his body, and he jerks his arm away. " _What_?"

Yuri nods to the woman again. "If you truly love me, you wouldn't want me to do it, would you?" He hugs himself and shudders. "Besides, I can't. If I do, I won't be able to ever silence these voices."

"Who is she to you?"

"This is Ms. Minako, my old ballet teacher."

Victor's eyes meet the woman's watery ones. So, she's no stranger to Yuri. All of his victims thus far seem to have played a role in his life. The desperation in her eyes causes the sickness in his stomach to rise like bile. Victor swallows it back down. His jaw tightens. He's not a killer. Not even for Yuri. He drops the skate again. This time with purpose. "I can't do it. And since you won't let her go…why not put her in the cage?"

Yuri blinks. "Cage?"

Victor searches for a more appropriate word. "My enclosure."

"You mean, your room?" Yuri corrects, and the Russian nods. "But that's _your_ room that I made for _you_."

"Yes, but…" He takes Yuri's hand in his and brings it to his cheek. "Now that I'm here, I can stay with you." He kisses his knuckles. "We can finally be together. Isn't that want you want?"

Yuri's pupils contract. His eyes stare into nothing for a time before returning to Ms. Minako. "All right."

Victor sighs, relieving all the tension that's built up inside of him. "Thank you, my love." He gently pulls the younger man back into his arms and leans in.

Yuri's hand presses against his lips, halting the kiss. "But until she's dealt with, we're not doing anything." He glides his thumb across Victor's bottom lip and smiles. "Once she is, then I'm yours."


	9. Chapter 9

9\. Yuri - V

* * *

Yuri wants nothing more than to connect his lips to Victor's and let their primal urges carry them off into eternal bliss. But even that must wait in order to protect his life, and, by extension, Victor's. He needs to maintain a cautious approach lest something goes wrong.

Before they can move Ms. Minako, he leads Victor to the basement door. His fingers coil around the doorknob. He hesitates before turning it, giving his lover a meaningful look. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to. I can go myself." The last thing Yuri wants is for Victor to know him in this way. But if their relationship is to grow beyond this savage double life Yuri has lived for the past few days, they must break down each other's defenses bit by bit.

His prince seems on the edge of fear but shakes his head. "No, I can do this. Let me help you."

Yuri gives an unenthused, "Okay" and opens the door. The strong odor of blood and feces hits him, and he nearly gags. Recovering, he flicks the light on to reveal the staircase. Even from the top of the stairs, he can see the dark pool of blood gathered at the bottom. His steps are slow and steady, barely making a sound. When he reaches the last step, he turns to face Victor, who's still standing at the top.

"Changed your mind?" A thought comes to him: Victor may shut the door and call the police. There's enough space between them for him to. Of course, Yuri has a Plan B if that should happen.

Victor inhales deeply. "I'm just…" He looks away.

"Afraid?" Yuri finishes.

Victor's shoulders tense, and the outline of his jaw tightens. "No."

Despite its low tone, Yuri can sense the lie. "I'm not forcing you to help. You can wait upstairs if you'd like. But if we're to do this, let's do it together as a team."

The base of every relationship begins with trust.

And that base must be established.

Before Yuri loses Victor…

…permanently.

In retrospect, it's better that Victor understands and sees this part of him now rather than later. Yuri isn't all about killing. After today, he's ending his spree. Despite the constant internal battle he must endure, he has no more reason to continue on. Once he and Victor have consummated their relationship, Yuri will officially be reborn. Until then, they have to build honesty between each other. This may be the most unorthodox means, but it is also the most obvious. Victor has seen the worst of Yuri. If he starts from the bottom, his only direction from here is up.

Slowly but surely, Victor descends. He trips halfway down, and Yuri lurches forward, prepared to catch him, but the silver-haired prince grasps the railing just in time before that can happen. He releases a short breath. Even in the poor light, Yuri can see he's shivering.

"Are you cold?"

Victor shakes his head. "N-no." He finally joins him at the bottom.

Yuri brushes some bangs out of his prince's eyes and then strokes his face. "It's all right." He takes his hand and leads him across the floor, being sure to avoid the pools of dark blood. "Do you want to help me dispose the bodies first or clean your room?"

Victor licks his lips. He maintains his gaze on his feet, neither looking at the bodies nor his room. "The ca—room."

Yuri nods, and opens Victor's old door. He removes the makeshift toilet and futon, handing the latter to his partner. "Roll it up for me, please." As Victor does, Yuri takes the toilet and dumps its contents into the furnace. A wave of heat hits him, but the burning coals overshadow the smell. He washes the toilet off with the hose and then puts it to the side. He grabs a few garbage bags in preparation for the next step, along with cleaning solution, a mop, and a bucket. He pours a small amount into the room and then hands the mop to Victor. "Do this, and I'll start with the others." He looks over at the bodies.

Victor briefly follows his eyes before jerking his head back, rolling up his sleeves, and attending to his cleaning duties. A small grunt of discomfort escapes his throat.

"Is something wrong?"

"N-no."

"Victor," Yuri insists.

"I'm fine. Really."

Yuri pauses but then continues. He heads over to the table where Victor's phone rests along with several other tools, including a hacksaw. Although Victor's skate has been his primary weapon, it doesn't have the kind of durability that he requires for dismemberment. Bones are sturdy and stubborn—he's learned that well from disposing his father and his sister's bodies.

That experience had involved a lot of trial and error. First he considered disposing them as they were, but their bodies were far too large for garbage bags. So, Yuri cut them up and placed them both into two bags respectively. However, they were equally as heavy, so he removed half from each of them and put that half into a third bag. Finally, he had been successful, and the bags hid the smell so the garbage man had no inkling of the sinister cargo he had picked up when he came by. The smile that crawled up Yuri's face as he watched the truck drive off was wide and filled with relief.

The hacksaw could use a sharpening, and its corners have rusted, but Yuri doesn't have the time to attend to either. He grabs a new set of rubber gloves from a compartment in the toolbox, pulls them over his hands, and then wounds his mother's apron around his waist. Finally, he turns back around to the bodies with the hacksaw in hand.

He starts with the most obvious body—Takeshi. His entrails are still splayed across the table like a dissection. Yuri's stomach twists slightly as he snaps the rubber gloves into place and begins collecting the entrails first before dismembering the corpse. He first will saw off the limbs, the most obvious choice. Yuri briefly looks up to examine Victor still cleaning his room. He's down on all fours, trying to get at every corner. A scowl of discomfort runs across his face. Yuri notes the slight disgust in his eyes and the sweat permeating off his forehead. Victor wipes it away on his shoulder and groans. As if sensing Yuri's eyes, he cranes his neck around.

Yuri smiles, trying to find some relief in the uncanny atmosphere.

Victor promptly looks away.

A lump grows in the younger man's throat at the reaction. _He's just nervous_ , he thinks. _Don't worry. Give him time._

Victor seems to quicken his pace with the mop.

Yuri's gaze lingers on him. He watches the way his prince's hair falls over his face, revealing a small bald spot on the back of his cranium. He's tempted to swirl a finger around the small spot.

Instead, he returns to the task at hand—he positions the hacksaw accordingly across the forearm and begins sawing. The blade cuts through the epidermis, and a stream of dark blood slips down. Even through his gloves, Yuri can feel the liquid's warmth. It doesn't take too long before he hits bone, and his pace quickens. It feels like he's cutting through a thick branch. All the while, Victor doesn't say anything or even look behind him. He seems to be mopping the same area for the majority of time it takes Yuri to dismember Takeshi's body. At least he's helping.

But Yuri's guard remains thick. He can't assume that Victor will accept him just yet when dismemberment comes to him so easily. It's something Victor clearly abhors and (understandably) refuses to witness.

There's no rush. They have their entire lives now to understand each other's demons, quirks, pet peeves, etcetera. Plus, if he's learned anything about himself from taking revenge on Takeshi, it's that Yuri is patient. Lines may be crossed on occasion, but as long as the love is always beating in their hearts, Yuri is confident he and Victor can push through.

They work in silence until Yuri has disposed of Takeshi's body in two garbage cans. Next is his wife, which takes half the time due to her slender frame in comparison to the fat bastard's. He doesn't even need to hack their two girls apart to fit them into their garbage bags. Once the last of the five garbage bags has been tied shut, he calls Victor over.

The prince finally releases the mop, leaning the cleaning tool against a wooden pillar before heading over to Yuri with a slight limp in his step. He keeps a few lengths between himself and the garbage bags that Yuri has piled up. A disturbed expression washes across his face.

Yuri reaches out and takes Victor's hand in his, squeezing its shivering fingers. His lips brush against his silver bangs, feeling the heat of his breath on his neck and shoulder. "It's okay if you don't want to. I understand."

He feels a shudder run down Victor's spine. "Yuri," he says, lowly, "do you love me?"

Their eyes meet, and a smile curls up Yuri's cheek. The unspoken response is enough to answer Victor's question. Yuri takes his other hand and strokes the curve of his prince's jaw before leading him to the pile of garbage bags.

"Take these upstairs for me and leave them next to the front door. I need to finish cleaning here."

Victor quietly obeys. He grabs two of the smaller bags and winces.

 _Shit_. Yuri had almost forgotten his injuries. "Never mind. I'll do it."

But when he reaches for one of the bags, Victor jerks it away.

Yuri blinks in bemusement.

"I'm fine," Victor says with a slight bite in his tone and then turns to the stairs and begins his ascension.

His steps are slow and sluggish. All the while Yuri worries he'll collapse and fall back and hurt himself. But thankfully, he reaches the top of the stairs without additional hindrance.

He disappears around the corner. Yuri wonders for a split second if he won't return. Though that would only prove his fears right that Victor doesn't love him enough to help him cast that side of himself away forever. It's a side he has depended on until recently. Although, he can't hate that side entirely. If not for its influence, he would have never been able to take back the last fifteen years that had been stolen from him by Takeshi. Every breath that fat bastard took was another one stolen from Yuri. Every moment he lived, Yuri's life shortened. But now he doesn't have to worry about that anymore. He can finally focus on the future. A grin crawls up his face as he stares at the three garbage bags lying near him.

His rejuvenation will begin shortly. He can feel it.

Of course, there's still one small obstacle that remains in the way…

A shadow emerges against the garbage bags, and Yuri's attention returns to the top of the stairs. Victor cradles one arm against his chest like it's wrapped in an invisible cast. Yuri's eyes narrow, and he notes the sickness in his face. Victor begins leaning forward—

—and leans too far.

Yuri lunges forward, taking a few quick steps up the stairs, and catches his love in his arms. But the catch is awkward and a pain shoots up his spine as he falls and hits the back of his skull against the concrete floor. All of Victor's weight rests on top of him. He shifts, trying to roll him off gently but stops midway and listens.

Victor's breath is labored in his ear. Something bubbles in his chest. A sharp cough escapes his mouth, followed shortly but another harsher one. Yuri can hear the phlegm gather in the back of Victor's throat. His raises a hand, brushes away a curtain of bangs, and presses it gently against the silver-haired prince's forehead. Stifling heat burns against his palm. He recoils, his eyes widened. "You're sick."

Victor moans, as if in denial.

Yuri sits up, realizing then that he has fallen in the pool of blood. Nearly his entire back has been cloaked in red. While a heavy sigh releases through his nose knowing he'll need to take another shower after this, it's not nearly as serious as Victor's condition.

Panic starts to consume him, but Yuri does his best to push it away as he lifts himself from the wet floor, taking Victor into his arms as he does. A short whimper reaches his ear, and Yuri does his best to avoid causing more trouble for his lover's already sickly self. Despite the sharp ache on the back of his head and the slippery floor that together threaten to drag him back down, he starts forward and ascends the stairs.

On the main floor, he considers where to lower Victor. The most obvious choice could be the couch but that's insufficient for his prince—in fact, that's an _insult_ to him.

Yuri hears another sharp whimper escape Victor's throat and grimaces. He steps into the closest open room—his room—and places him down on his bedspread with so much care that Victor could be a newborn. He's never carried anything so delicately in his life—not even carrying Axel could compare. Victor's far more invaluable.

A slab of sweat slides down his lover's forehead, and Yuri brushes it away with the heel of his hand. His fingers run down his collarbone, feeling the heat extend beneath the collar of Victor's shirt and soak into the fabric. Yuri carefully undoes any remaining buttons on Victor's shirt and pulls the clothing apart. He slides both arms through the sleeves until the shirt sits beneath his lover's weight. His porcelain skin glistens with sweat. The curves of abs layered on top of his abdomen almost distract Yuri from the current issue. His silver mane sticks to his skin, dampening it. His mouth hangs slightly open as he inhales and exhales through it in short, labored breaths. His eyes are closed, occasionally squinting in pain.

 _Tell me what I should do._

As if subconsciously knowing, Yuri's eyes fall to the bandage across Victor's chest. Upon closer inspection, he notices the swollen redness around the cloth and small bubbles of green pus oozing out from underneath. His eyes widen, and something kicks him in the chest.

 _It's infected_.

He thought he had been attending to Victor's injures with adequate skill. But he was wrong. He hasn't been making Victor feel better. He's been worsening his condition by neglecting to take him to the one place that could provide him the care he needs—a hospital.

The idea of bringing Victor to a medical facility sends a shiver up his spine. But seeing his lover in such a state has him balancing between which side to choose: Should he risk his own safety and call the emergency number? Or should he continue to be Victor's main provider and risk his health deteriorating even more than it clearly has?

Yuri bites his gum. He leaves Victor for a moment and heads back into the bathroom, opening the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and rifling through the various pills on the shelf. They all seem to have the same level of potency—Tylenol, Advil, Aleve, but _which_?

He sifts through their directions before finally giving up and planting one of each into his left palm. Panic riles up inside of him, but Yuri fights it off as he pours a cup of water from the sink and hurries back to his room. The body on his bed no long looks like it belongs to Victor Nikiforov, the man he's admired for years and dreamed of during late nights. What he sees is a shriveled husk of that person. And it's entirely his fault.

Yuri pauses before approaching. "Here," he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed. "Lift your head." Victor releases a sharp groan, forcing Yuri to lean forward and lift his head for him. He wedges a knee and a pillow beneath Victor's head to keep it propped up so he doesn't accidently drown. Yuri brings the edge of his palm to Victor's bottom lip and tilts it, letting the pills fall into his mouth. Then he takes the water and pours about a teaspoon amount as a chaser.

Victor's body twitches, and for a split second, Yuri worries he's choking. But then his lover's Adam's apple bobs up and down once, and the gulp that follows relieves him of any tension.

Yuri places the remainder of the cup down onto his nightstand before sliding his cramping leg out from under the pillow and gently dropping Victor's head down onto the cushion. He leaves again, retrieving a washcloth from the laundry closet and drenching it in ice-cold water. During this time, he washes what blood he can off of him and unwinds the apron. Then he squeezes the cloth until it's damp and returns to his prince's side, dabbing away all of the excess sweat across his head and neck. Beneath the skin on Victor's neck, he notices the thumping of his heartbeat, like a small drum trying to burst out from beneath its fleshy containment. His fingertips press against its beat. Yuri's eyes close.

Their hearts are in sync.

He reopens his eyes and pats more sweat off his prince before leaving the cloth on his forehead. The oozing bandage across Victor's chest still gives him pause, but Yuri can't afford to call an ambulance or drive to the hospital. He'll be questioned, suspected, convicted, and imprisoned. He'll never get to be with Victor again—they'll be separated for life. As frustrating as it is seeing his lover in such distress, he opts not to do anything about the wounds—for now.

Once the morning comes, he'll be able to venture down to the drug store and search the shelves for over the counter antibiotics. Yuri may even return to the place where he had bought the special ingredient he put into several people's food. It's a stretch, but it's less risky and more optimistic for the both of them in the long run than dragging Victor to a medical facility at this late of an hour.

He turns to the timer on the nightstand. It's nearly one o'clock in the morning. The drug store should be open at seven. He has six hours to wait. Six hours too long—six hours he _has_ to _wait_.

 _Wait_ , he thinks, trying to drain the bubbling anxiety that's steadily creeping back into him. Yuri leans over the bed and rocks back and forth on his heels as he considers any other store that may be open at this hour with the necessary pharmaceuticals he needs. His brow furrows. Nothing comes to mind.

Just then, hot fingers touch his hand. Yuri's eyes lower to Victor's squinted ones. His mouth trembles and then moves, but whatever he's trying to say doesn't come out.

"What?" Yuri bends over until his ear is mere inches from Victor's mouth. He squeezes his lover's hand as he hears the words "Stay with me" peel through an airy, exhausted breath.

A single drop of sweat skids down Victor's cheek. No, a tear.

Yuri's eyes widen for a beat before relaxing. He wipes the tear away with his thumb and nods. "Okay." He wedges himself into the space between Victor and the edge of the bed. He rolls over and presses his bare chest against his lover's naked side. He brings his arm up to wrap around Victor but swiftly recoils it when realizing the extra weight may cause more harm than reassurance. So, he scoots closer until Victor's heat becomes his own.

For a while, neither of them speaks.

Yuri considers asking him if he needs more water, but the thought drifts from his mind when Victor's hand searches blindly for his. They lace their fingers together, and Yuri presses his forehead against his lover's shoulder.

Another thought crosses his mind: Axel. She's still in the closet. And Ms. Minako's still splayed out on his sister's bed. But neither thought is strong enough to persuade him to leave Victor's side.

Instead, Yuri yawns for the first time in what feels like an eternity. He can't remember the last time he's slept. His eyelids sag, and his worries gradually seep into nothingness. He brings their entwined hands up to his lips and kisses his prince's knuckles. Before his eyes completely shut, Yuri watches Victor's eyelids droop and close. His strained breaths slowly even out as the drugs' influence help lull him to sleep.

Yuri shuts his eyes, and the walls around them dissolve.


	10. Chapter 10

10\. Yuri P. - I

* * *

Yuri Plisetsky has two things to worry about: one, Yakov is going to beat the shit out of him for being late, and two, Yakov is going to kill him because he still has no idea where Victor is.

Today marks the fourth day the world's most decorated figure skater has fallen off the map, and the blonde hopes he'll be able to evade the barricade of paparazzi that have gathered in front of the skating rink. He mulls over what kind of ruse he'll need to compose today if they do end up catching him sneaking in through the back door.

He opens his phone and releases a deep sigh through his nose. Any messages are from either Yavok or Lilia—though the silver-haired Russian wasn't fond of texting Yuri even when he was around. There's always been an intangible barrier between them. Victor may be, quite easily, the most prolific athlete of his generation, and yet spends his downtime separating himself from everyone else around him. In the past, Yuri has tried breaking the wall between them in conversation, sifting through banter and testing for any weaknesses in Victor's exterior that may crack his feigned smile. But no matter the effort, the silver-haired skater wouldn't flinch. His kind of façade was one that took years to perfect, but once perfected it would never break.

Yuri pulls a wool sweater over his skin and wiggles into a pair of black tights. He flicks his bangs out of the way as he shrugs a hoodie over his shoulders and pulls on a pair of boots before shoving his fists into his coat pockets respectively and pushing open the front door.

The crisp November air hits his skin, chilling his flushed face. Winter in Russia comes early and always lasts longer than most would like. But Yuri has grown accustomed to the cool weather—he's lived here long enough to wish for nothing more than an endless frozen ocean on which to skate until he is better than even Victor Nikiforov.

But a dream like that is meant to stay frozen because, deep down, he knows he can never catch up. No matter the hours of grueling practice he endures to get his programs pristine until they're replaying like a recorder off the ice, Yuri still sees a crack in the ice. The crack expands into a gaping trench like an earthquake has torn the earth asunder. As he looks out at the endless ocean beyond this trench, he sees a figure with silver-hair and matching eyes glide effortlessly across the undulating waves. And all Yuri can do is fight back the tears of envy from devouring him.

He shoves his fists deeper into his pockets until it feels as if they may burst right through the seams and struts across the walkway, toward the rink, with his hood pushed as far forward over his head as possible to obscure what portion of his face he can. Being recognized is one thing. He's already well know in this region of Russia, almost as much as Victor is, so the prospect of being seen is quite high given his poor choice in disguise. But the paparazzi aren't nearly as bothersome as the concern of his superior is.

Yuri scoffs, trying to dissuade himself from actually thinking he _cares_ for Victor. The guy up and left, without even a hint of where he has decided to make his sojourn. Yuri has a few potential outlets he can call and possibly get an answer from but it'll just be more of an excuse for Victor to avoid him. Yuri shakes his head the third or fourth time today when he considers texting the silver-haired skater for about the hundredth time in the last few days.

It's not unusual for Victor to stop answering people's calls or text messages, but what is unusual is for him to fall off of social media. He frequents these sites and always makes sure his followers keep tabs on him and where he might be. But ever since departing, Victor's accounts have been inactive. Yuri scrolls through his pictures, coming to a stop on the latest one, which was posted a day before Victor called Yavok and told the older man he was taking an undisclosed hiatus.

Yuri walks briskly toward the skating rink. Even from a distance, he can see the lineup of media trucks, cameras, and people gathered before the building.

Yuri clicks his tongue. _Don't these assholes have anything better to do with their lives?_ He stalks toward the back entrance, hoping nobody will recognize him beneath the weak disguise. He continues to walk but doesn't run, afraid he might alert them. He makes it to the back door in one piece and absent any pestering interviews.

The moment the door closes behind him, he's greeted with the familiar bellowing of Yavok. "WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN? YOU'RE NEARLY AN HOUR LATE—!"

Yuri wiggles his pinky finger into his ear, wincing. "Overslept," he says honestly and flicks the earwax. "My alarm didn't go off."

The older man crosses his arms over his chest and taps a finger on his arm. A vein protrudes across his forehead, and Yuri has the childish desire to pop it like a balloon. "Just because Victor isn't around anymore doesn't give you permission to be lazy. In fact, that should give you _more_ reason to work harder."

The words sting a bit. "I _am_ working."

"Not enough," Yavok barks before releasing a long sigh. "I just wish Victor wasn't so damn mysterious. You sure you haven't seen anything of him on that…what is it called, Instagram?"

"Positive," Yuri says curter than intended. "He hasn't posted anything new since he left."

Yavok seems tempted to lecture him but instead says, "Honestly, of all the shenanigans he's done to me over the years, this one takes the cake. Not even his family knows where he's gone. It doesn't seem right. I feel like we should call the police at this point."

"We should," Yuri agrees with an unenthused shrug. "Maybe they can beat up the paparazzi standing outside the rink while they're at it." Thinking about it, that doesn't sound like such a bad idea.

"What's this about beating up the paparazzi?" comes a feminine voice. Both of them turn to see Lilia, Yavok's ex-wife and Yuri's ballet coach, approach. Her resting face is suspended in a deep scowl as she places a hand on her hip and tilts her head at her pupil. "I'm glad to see you've finally decided to join us, Yuri."

He excuses the snarky words. Yuri can withstand a barrage of yelling from Yavok if it doesn't mean he has to deal with Lilia's bad side. Of all the people he is genuinely afraid of, she's the only one.

"So still no word on Victor?" she asks.

Both men shake their heads.

"Did he give you any inkling of why he decided to leave?" Lilia asks her ex-husband for perhaps the fifth time since Victor's departure.

"I told you before, Lilia, all he said was that he was taking time off this season but would be back next season. Beyond that, he said it's a secret." The older man scratches at the stubble under his chin. He hasn't shaved since Victor's disappearance, and Yuri can tell from the bags under his eyes that he hasn't been able to sleep either.

"I'm…gonna get ready," Yuri says, trying to divert the conversation from Victor and distract himself with other concerns. This season will be started soon, and he's been losing more and more time to prepare with each passing day used to discover new leads into Victor's whereabouts.

He leaves Yavok and Lilia to their discussion and heads for the locker room. He twists the combination on his to unlock his locker. He opens the door and removes the pair of skates that he had placed there the day before. These skates have been good to him for the past few seasons of competition—the silver lining during all this Victor nonsense. The blades gleam brightly as he removes their guards to check their status.

Satisfied, he puts the guards back on and pushes open a neighboring door to the rink. The A/C hits him almost as intensely as the November air. A shiver runs down his spine, but it's a welcoming one. Yuri shrugs off his hoodie and puts it, his phone, and the skate guards to the side on one of the bleachers before opening the small door and stepping onto the ice.

As he glides across the frozen lake, he envisions Victor's head in front of him. No matter how much he tries to grope the air to reach him or scream his name with anguish, the silver-haired champion never turns back. Rage fills Yuri's belly as he quickens his pace and stalks toward Victor's back. But not even speeding up his pace can make strides between them. The more he quickens, the farther Victor seems to be. Finally, Yuri stops, feeling a cramp in his side coming on. He presses his fingers between two ribs to subdue to ache, while gasping for oxygen, his other hand leans on the side of the rink for support.

"Interesting routine."

Yuri turns to see someone sitting in the bleachers near his stuff. All the ire in him simmers as he crosses the rink and says, "Grandpa. What are you doing here?" He leans on the side of the fence.

"I came here to cheer my grandson on, of course," he says, with a slight puzzled tone, as if he's been offended. "Is that so wrong?" But soon, he smiles, and Yuri knows he's just teasing.

"Sorry."

"Don't apologize. You've got a lot on your plate, with the new season coming and Victor leaving. It's stressful. I get it."

Yuri smiles. It's hard to feel angry around his grandpa, Nikolai Plisetsky. He's the one who raised him when his mother decided to fall of the map similar to how Victor has.

"I just…wish I could do something instead of being stuck here going through routines," Yuri admits, resting his elbows down and his chin in his palms. "Yavok is going mad not knowing where Victor's at."

"He's being concerned. If you left to go somewhere without telling me, I'd be just as frustrated."

"I'd never _not_ tell you where I'm going."

His grandpa's smile extends. "I know. It's possible Victor wants to take a break from this lifestyle. Not everyone's made of stone, Yuri. You understand that. Sometimes we need to get out from our cages and fly."

He makes it sound almost romantic.

But when Yuri thinks about Victor's character, he can't see the man running away from anything. Victor is one of those people born to be in the spotlight, to be the greatest, to be loved by the masses and envied by his competition. Why would he give up something he not only excels at but is passionate about too? The blonde can't wrap his mind around the thought.

Yuri clicks his tongue. "Still, that bastard should have at least left _something_ behind."

His grandpa pats him on the shoulder with an understanding gaze. "He'll come back. It'll happen when you least expect it. That's when everything happens. So just stay optimistic."

"Isn't it cautiously optimistic?" Yuri counters, having learned the phrase from the very paternal figure standing before him, who'd tell him that almost every time before he stepped into the rink.

"Should it be?" his grandpa remarks.

Yuri balances on the tips of his toes. The skates' blades beneath his feet sink into the ice. He bounces up and down on his toes for a time, deciding what he can do to somehow get through to Victor despite having absolutely no inkling of whether his attempt will prove successful or not. His eyes wander to his phone resting on his hoodie.

"Can you grab me my phone, please?"

The older man turns slightly and reaches over to grab the device. All of a sudden, he lurches forward, wincing.

"Grandpa!" Yuri screams, but holds back when his grandpa puts a hand up to stop him from jumping the fence.

"I-I'm all right," he reassures. "Damn, this bad back of mine." He arches, pointing his chin to the ceiling, and a subtle crack comes out of the action. A sigh echoes past his lips. "That's better. Getting old sure sucks. Here." He offers his grandson the mobile device.

Yuri laughs lightly as he takes his phone from him. It's a challenge to know whether one small wince should go unattended or will soon birth a new set of problems. He has wanted to ask his grandpa whether it's better for his health if he has a brace or something to give his back some support, but Yuri can never find the right moment to. It seems inappropriate to remind his grandpa that he's now up in the years, and time may not be his ally for much longer. But Yuri doesn't want to think about his grandpa's health. Every time he does, a storm of restless emotions begins to churn inside him.

"That bastard owes me a program."

His grandpa hums in bemusement.

"Before he disappeared, I asked Victor to choreograph a program for me," Yuri explains, gripping his phone until his knuckles whiten. "He could've at least sent me a video of one or some notes. _Fucker_." For a moment, the blonde forgets whom he's standing in front of and promptly claps his hand over his mouth.

His grandpa stares at him. "Then maybe it's time you decide to choreograph something for yourself."

Yuri dips his head. He's always depended on coaches telling him what to do, what works and what doesn't work. He's learned to take direction very well despite what others might think of him. But to have the freedom to choose his own program this time seems foreign. He feels like a little kid again, stepping onto the ice for the first time on his chubby toddler legs and teetering to keep balanced. Nobody to assist or guide him. But as long as he remains steadfast about his passion for skating, he shouldn't worry about failure. After all, his grandpa will be watching and cheering him on as he always has.

He checks the time on his phone. It's just past four o'clock in the afternoon. He sifts through the dozens of unanswered texts to Victor he's sent over the course of three days. The ire in his heart gradually returns, and his grandpa's words drift from his mind when he sends yet another angry text to Victor:

Yuri: Oi, whenever you decide to answer your fucking phone and stop being a ghost. Lemme know.

He holds off on anything further but as the text processes, he instantly regrets sending it. But it's too late. Wherever Victor is, or wherever he's left his phone, it's going to send somehow. Whether Victor actually reads it or not is anybody's guess. The man has done well thus far to avoid all contact with the outside world.

Yuri stares at the text for a while. He shouldn't have cursed.

"You need to quit worrying so much about him," he grandpa advises. "Start being selfish."

"According to Yavok and Lilia, I've already accomplished that," Yuri replies, handing him back his phone so he doesn't have to keep waiting for a reply that'll never come.

"It's good to be selfish. Before you know it, you're old and crusty." He cracks his back again and winces. "See what I mean?"

Yuri stifles a laugh. "True."

His grandpa gestures to the ice with his head. "Go on. I want to see what you have in mind."

The blonde puts his phone down on the fence and pushes away from the side of the rink, gliding across the frozen arena until he's center. Closing his eyes, he envisions himself on a stage in front of the masses on the most important night of his career—the Grand Prix Finals. And so, when he kicks off, he makes sure that everyone, no matter if it's between only his grandfather or a thousand strong, are watching him. Yuri cannot afford to be anything less than great.

When he does complete his practice for the day, he hasn't realized an hour has gone by until his grandpa waves to him and lets him know he's heading home. Yuri returns to the entrance and exits the rink. Sweat sticks to his forehead, and he wipes it away with the back of his hand. Winded, he pants and fans his collar to relieve some of the heat underneath his clothes.

He falls down onto the bleacher and notices his phone light up. Yuri picks the device up and opens it to the main menu, flipping over to the green Messages app.

The moment the app opens, a rush of heat swells in his face at the name that has responded.

"Victor?"

He swiftly opens the message and sees what he first mistakes as a prank. But as he reads through the message, he notices a subtle detail that not many other people would catch onto:

5:11 PM: Victor: Yuri, I know this sounds impossible to believe but I've been captured and imprisoned by Yuri Katsuki in Hasetsu in Japan. The address is XXX. His residence is called _Yu-topia Katsuki._ Please help!

Victor doesn't like to call him Yuri, but Yurio. It's a stupid nickname a few fangirls had composed, and Victor would use as a way to tease the young skater. He even has him saved into his phone as such. So for Victor to write his actual name sends a cold sweat running down the nape of the blonde's neck. His heart lurches.

Yuri pauses as he examines the photo below the text message. He isn't sure what to make of it at first, but, upon closer inspection, he notices what appears to be a small child lying facedown in blood. The color in his face drains.

"What is it?"

His grandpa's voice startles him. Yuri thought he had already left, but he's still standing by the door to the locker room.

Should he tell him? Yuri opens his mouth but closes it just before the words come up. No, this isn't something to get his family involved in. Especially if it's real, which it seems to be. He can't get anybody else involved. This is a cry for help directed specifically to him.

"Grandpa," he says, clenching his fist around the device, finding strength within himself. "Promise me you won't tell Yavok or Lilia."

The old man's eyebrow rises, and the concern in his eyes grows rapidly. "Tell them what?"

"I'm going to Japan."

* * *

 **A/N** : So, to clear up any inconsistencies: The time difference between Russia and Japan is approximately six hours. Victor received Yurio's message an hour before he checked it (at about 11 pm), while Yurio checked his an hour after sending (at about 5 pm). For example, while it's four o'clock in the afternoon in Russia, it's ten o'clock at night in Japan.


	11. Chapter 11

11\. Victor - V

* * *

Hot.

That's all he's feeling. Like he's being boiled alive on a heated stove. His skin begins to char. The ache in his head sends waves of pain shooting through his limbs. No matter how much Victor yearns to escape this torture, he's immobile—frozen in time like a statue, forced to endure whatever comes next. The boiling heat consumes him. Smoke invades his lungs, clawing at the muscles and scraping along them so even breathing causes irrational volts to surge through his body. Victor knows he's fading. He holds his last breath of life for as long as possible, relishing it despite the immense discomfort.

The heat scorches his being, turning Victor to ash.

It's over—Yuri. Ice skating. His life. _Everything_.

If only he could've said goodbye to everyone. If only he had left some kind of message to let the people he cares about know how much they mean to him. If only he hadn't perished with regret firmly in his heart.

A few drops of white solidify his misfortune.

 _Snow_.

Wait, snow? Why is it snowing?

Tiny snowflakes floating down from a black sky eradicate the heat that had once encompassed him. He reaches out with a hand and watches as the tiny white fragments melt against his skin. Victor notices something else—his hand. It's smaller than he remembers. He reaches out his other hand and the sides of his palms press together to collect the falling frost. The heat he had been fighting feebly to escape is gone, supplanted by a refreshing cool that ruins all the pain that had begun to devour him. This isn't just a simple vision—Victor feels _alive_ again.

He brings his tiny hands to his face, tracing the outline of his nose, eyes, mouth, and hairline. The roundness in his face hasn't been there since childhood. Thanks to skating, Victor's physique and face have reduced any excess fat. He immediately deduces he's about a year younger than the age he began skating—making him about five or six.

It's hard to imagine being so young again. What kind of person is he? What thoughts go through a young boy's head?

The small snowflakes begin to fall heavy in his tiny hands, numbing them. Shivers run up his spine, and Victor hugs himself, creating friction against his arms to regain the warmth that is rapidly depleting. He realizes his tiny body doesn't have a jacket to resist the elements. As the snow picks up strength, Victor begins fighting a losing battle.

Suddenly, he feels a firm pat on his back. It startles Victor, and he turns around to peer up at someone tall with hair the color of silver and eyes as pale as the moon. His mouth drops.

The man is himself—his _future_ self. He's dressed in his signature attire—a red and white hoodie, symbolizing his Russian origins. The look in his eyes is scarcely that of anything Victor thinks he's capable of emoting.

He goes to ask something, but his other half raises a hand to halt the words from trickling out.

"Don't," his other self says with a firm glare. "You're already dead."

It almost comes out too fast that Victor doesn't believe he's heard it correctly until his other self begins walking away, into the abyss of white frost. A foul poison swells inside his heart and hijacks his bloodstream, turning his entire body to ice. Only one name is able to thaw the growing freeze:

"Yuri…"

His other self stops abruptly a few lengths away. His silver mane catches in the wind. When he turns, his face is as indifferent as before, minus the slight cock of his brow. "Who?"

Victor watches in stunned silence as his other self turns back around and continues on, disappearing into the abyss. The storm swiftly swallows up his footprints in the snow. Victor has no strength left in him to fight through the storm.

A fierce wind kicks up, hitting him like a thousand tiny needles pinching every part of his exposed skin. Victor shuts his eyes. If he's dead, why can he feel such fury? If he's dead, why haven't his worries faded into nothingness? Why does the world seem against him? Why can't he find peace? Why is nobody here to save him?

 _Yuri_.

Victor's eyes reopen. He's no longer caught in Mother Nature's wrath. Instead, he stands before a three-story building with red bricks and a sign in Russian reading, "St. Petersburg Academy." He furrows his brow—he knows this school—it's the school he attended as a child.

He looks down at his hands again, they've grown a bit, but they're still far too small and fragile to belong to an adult. Victor notices something move in his peripheral vision. He turns to his left and notices the young boy in the window's glass reflection staring back at him with bemusement. The child looks roughly around nine years old. When Victor reaches up to brush some bangs out of his eyes, the reflection mimics his action.

"Victor!"

He swirls around, hoping to see the person whose name has slipped from his mind, but finds another boy his age running toward him with purpose. The boy has large brown eyes and matching colored hair. His gate is a bit awkward as he runs. He crashes into Victor, nearly toppling him over, but Victor manages to balance himself out before they can fall to the ground.

The boy pants like he's run a marathon, leaning his full weight on him. It takes a moment for him to say, "I need…to ask you something."

As if someone has dropped the knowledge into his head, Victor somehow knows the boy's name. "Dmitri." He's a friend. "What's wrong?" He helps him to his feet and peels his weight off of him with gentle force.

"Are you going…to the hideout today?"

A few quizzical blinks later, and Victor remembers he had promised his friend they would spend time at their hideout—an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city they used to frequent before he started competitively skating.

"Uhh, sure," he says, feeling the lie pour out beneath a feigned smile. "What time?"

"Right after school," Dmitri says, grinning, having no inkling that Victor's words have been forced. The innocent look in his eyes causes Victor's heart to twist in his chest. "Promise you'll be there this time?"

Victor dips his head. "Yeah."

But Dmitri raises a hand, curling all but one finger into a fist. "Pinkie promise."

Victor stares at the tiny appendage for a long time until finally raising a partially balled fist and curling his pinkie around Dmitri's.

The bell rings, and the boys head inside.

But Victor doesn't go to the hideout after school. In fact, he completely forgets their promise all together. He heads straight to the St. Petersburg skating rink for his daily afterschool practice sessions with Yavok. He had started skating competitively a few years early, and, ever since, he can barely maintain a balanced life between schoolwork and figure skating. A social life is nearly nonexistent.

And so, as Victor practices his routine for the upcoming competition, he forgets the boy he leaves sitting alone in an abandoned warehouse kicking thin air while waiting on a broken promise.

On the following day, Victor sees Dmitri dragging his feet across the pavement as he enters school. A strong sting hits his chest. His immediate instinct is to apologize profusely for being a no-show.

"Oh, it's fine," Dmitri says, pinching the bridge of his nose. Victor notices the darkened bags beneath his eyes.

"I promise I'll make sure to take time off this weekend for you," Victory says. Though he honestly hasn't told Yavok the news yet, and given the level of commitment competitive athletes must provide, he doubts he'll be able to spare more than an hour for Dmitri.

The other boy stares at the ground. "No, don't worry about it. Your coach won't like it."

But Victor can't let this ache in his chest go. "Dmitri, I promise to be there for you. Let's meet at nine o'clock at night." He raises a hand and rests it on the other boy's shoulder. "Okay?"

Dmitri's eyes linger on their feet. "Okay."

The day ends with Victor returning home after hours at the rink. He hasn't done his homework or eaten since lunchtime. His parents aren't home, which isn't a surprise. Given their busy work schedules, seeing them at this hour of night would be a surprise. They could hire a babysitter if they knew what time Victor came home—his schedule depends strictly on Yavok's temperament of the day. Today his coach was generous and let him leave just before seven.

The young Russian peels off his sweat-drenched clothes and starts a warm bath for himself. He turns the nob and steps inside the tub, instantly feeling the goosebumps brush across his skin. A satisfying sigh exhales through his nose, as Victor sinks into the warm water, letting it submerge his entire body except his head. He rolls his shoulders underwater and rests the back of his cranium against the edge of the tub. Closing his eyes, he envisions a boy sitting alone in a warehouse without anyone to play with. He tries to entertain himself by fiddling with a lone stick and writing his name into the dust on a nearby table. But the mood never lifts beyond that, and he leaves within the hour.

Victor slides down the edge of the tub until his entire head's underwater. Beneath the surface, he listens to a soft ringing. Within this ringing comes beating, like the sounds of footsteps crunching in snow. The sound belongs to his heart. Victor counts the space in between beats like he's counting the rhythm of a song for his program. Then he imagines looking out at the bleachers and seeing an endless crowd of obscured faces cheering him on.

All except for one.

Dmitri's face clearly shows, smiling as innocently as ever. He's screaming Victor's name at the top of his lungs.

Victor has known Dmitri since they were in preschool. But they didn't become friends until a few years later. Victor's family had moved back to St. Petersburg after a few years, and he had nobody to call a friend. Though Victor did his best to stand on his own, internally he was screaming for someone to say hello to him. Finally, a boy approached him one day and asked him if he wanted to race him on the slide. Victor wiped the tears away and nodded, and a warm hand stretched out to accept him.

That hand gave him hope. Dmitri has proven himself as a valuable friend. Now Victor must do the same.

He'll invite him to his next practice.

Yes. That's what he'll do.

Instead of spending their time in an old, dusty warehouse, Dmitri will be able to watch his friend on the ice—the place he is most comfortable. He'll be able to see where Victor's talent truly lies.

Victor rises from the water, gasping, not realizing how long he had actually been submerged. The new idea has rejuvenated him, and the sore muscles in his legs feel repaired. He grabs a towel from a nearby rack and prepares for what he'll say to Dmitri tomorrow before school.

He stands and steps out of the tub.

That's not all he'll do.

 _I'll give him a private performance. I'll skate just for him. Trust me, Dmitri. It'll be worth it._

Victor dresses and starts rifling through his CDs for the perfect song. Once he finds it, he begins formulating a new program in his head.

Victor greets his friend at the front doors on Friday morning, a day before they had initially scheduled to meet in their hideout. Victor crashes into the other boy with almost as much force as Dmitri had a few days prior. He wraps his arms around his friend and shakes him just enough to attain his full attention.

"Dmitri," he gasps, "come to…my practice tomorrow…instead." He takes his collar and billows the fabric to relieve some of the hot sweat underneath his clothes. He had been running since leaving his house.

"What?"

"My practice tomorrow, at the skating rink. Come watch me. You'll get to see what I do all the time."

The other boy goes stiff within Victor's arms. "I thought we were going to the hideout."

"We can go to the hideout any day. Please come tomorrow in the morning. I promise you, it'll be worth it. You'll never have to go to that icky warehouse again for us to hang." He tilts his head to the side and a smile crawls up his face. "Well, what'cha say?"

The other boy looks at him with bemusement. "But the hideout is—it's our hideout. Just for you and me. It's a lot closer. Besides, I won't be able to get into the rink without a key, I don't think."

But Victor shakes his head. "That's okay. You can just sneak in through the back door. Everyone does it. If you come early enough, you'll never want to leave. I guarantee that. _Please_." His grip tightens around Dmitri's jacket until his nails dig into the fabric. He fears that if he lets him go without hearing a yes, he'll never be able to mend their friendship to what it once was.

His friend's eyes soften, and the confusion on his face wavers. "I'm not sure. I'll have to see."

"No, say yes."

"Victor."

"Say _yes_."

Dmitri swallows thickly. "Okay. Yes."

Victor's entire weight falls onto him, and they plummet to the ground in a messy ball of hugs and sweat and snow. "Thank you! Thank you!" When they both rise to their feet, he continues, "Come to the rink tomorrow no later than six thirty in the morning."

Dmitri's mouth drops. " _That_ early?"

Victor nods vehemently. "My coach won't be in until seven thirty, which gives us an entire hour."

His friend's lips press together. "Wait. Isn't it supposed to snow tonight?"

"All the more reason to come watch," Victor says, smiling wide.

The bell rings.

"I'll see you tomorrow." Victor waves and heads inside, not bothering to take note of the ambivalence on his friend's face.

Victor's alarm goes off at six o'clock sharp the next morning. He flies out of his bed, the world still black around him. He feels around for the warm clothes he had laid out for himself last night. One special item in particular rests on the nearby nightstand, and he tucks it into his back pocket. He's not sure if his parents are home, but, if they are, then he'd rather not turn on the light and disturb anyone. The sounds of his footsteps across the wood floor are soft and precise—he's as graceful on hardwood as he is on ice. Victor shrugs on comfortably warm attire, zips up his parka, and is out of the house in less than ten minutes.

Like the forecast had promised, it's snowing. _Hard_. Pulling his hood over his head, Victor steps down the front steps and hears the crunching beneath his feet as he walks across his lawn and toward the street. He follows the white road for about a mile until he sees the familiar globe-like structure in the distance. The massive spectacle dwarfs any buildings surrounding it, and with the sun still asleep and the snow falling with increased strength, its massive figure seems even more intimidating than usual. St. Petersburg may be a city with may large monuments, but nothing can compete to the rink's size. Every time Victor approaches it, he feels like he's about to be swallowed up by some colossal beast.

But while he may not have to worry about actually being devoured, Victor does become a different person whenever he enters those doors. He's no long Victor, the elementary school boy with unusually colored hair and pale eyes, he's Victor Nikiforov—the entertainer. Yavok tells him that every time he steps into the rink.

The storm beats down on him, trying to change his mind, but Victor's resolve is strong. He blocks out the torrent of frozen rain with a raised hand as he treks through several inches of snow to reach the back door of the skating rink. When the door opens, he's able to relax and flick on the nearest light. Yavok would normally be here before him, but Victor has occasionally gone to practice earlier than his coach, so he knows where everything is. He heads to the locker room, unlocks the combination, and removes his skates. Though they are the same skates he's used repeatedly, today they feel different in his hands—more purposeful than ever.

Once he reaches the rink, it's nearly half-past six. Victor surveys the bleachers but finds no sign of his friend. That's all right. The storm may make him tardier than expected. Even if he doesn't show until seven, Victor won't mind. He removes the special item from his back pocket. It's a CD with a very specific song he's been replaying incessantly for the last few days. He steps closer to the CD player resting on one of the lowest bleachers, places the disc inside, and clicks it shut. His heart flutters with excitement as Victor presses play.

He closes his eyes and lets the song echo throughout the empty audience. Hopefully, Dmitri will know to follow it all the way here. Victor hums the tune to himself as he performs his program in his mind. For what feels like an eternity, he's alone with the music and his thoughts.

Then a door creaks open.

At first, Victor wants to stop the music and hug Dmitri, but maybe he should surprise him. So he lets the music continue and steps out onto the ice, never taking a moment to say hi to his friend. He wants Dmitri to see him in his element—to see what Victor spends hours a day doing in lieu of joining the other boy at their makeshift hideout.

As the song lifts, he picks up speed and leaps off the ice and into the air, spinning, feeling a short wind across his skin. When he lands, he does so absent any weakness. For the briefest moment, he notices someone walk around from the corner of the bleachers, but he doesn't stop. The music is at its highest peak, and Victor envisions himself standing on top of the world waiting for the sunrise. Opening his arms wide, he lets the first rays of light hit him—warming him up, readying him for the grand finale. His program culminates into a series of loops and one spin to finish. Then the music rises to its final note before plummeting into nothing. Victor lands sharply in the center of the rink.

Silence.

The only evidence of sound is his gasping. Beads of sweat permeate the small of his back and his forehead. The artificial light from the ceiling above flickers, bringing his mind back to reality. When Victor turns toward the bleachers, someone claps.

It's not Dmitri.

"Impressive," Yavok says, drawing his hands under his armpits and sniffing. "Is this what you've been practicing behind my back for the last few days? We might be able to use that in the upcoming junior competition." A rare smile covers his face.

As the old man talks, Victor searches for his friend within the bleachers. But Yavok is the only witness. The young boy throws off his skates, pushes his feet back into his boots, and hurries outside midway through his coach's praise.

The bitter chill hits him first. Whistling wind stings his skin, and Victor lifts a hand over his face to attain some form of visibility. Lights from vehicles pierce the thick blackness, but beyond any headlights, he can't find anyone. He may very well be standing in about a foot of snow. The longer the storm tries to sway him to return inside, the more Victor wonders if Dmitri had decided to bail on him as revenge for Victor's many no-shows.

A small fire begins to burn inside him. Victor clenches his chest, fighting the ire from seeping out. Then he quietly heads back inside the skating rink to Yavok's bellowing.

The next morning, he tries to call Dmitri to no answer. Yavok wants him in the rink practicing, but Victor lies and says he had caught something from standing out in the elements for a prolonged period of time. The way home had been fraught with difficulty. Yavok had offered to drive him, but Victor didn't want to worry about being stuck in a car with his coach. They spend every day together—the times the boy has away from the older man are far and few. But Victor uses those moments to breathe. So, he risked his life, and returned home through the storm.

About two feet of snow cloaks St. Petersburg this Sunday morning. The city has dealt with frequent snowfalls, but something about last night leaves Victor on edge. He sits alone in his house, stranded until the trucks are able to plow what they can. He calls Dmitri's phone again to no avail.

Monday comes, and Victor finds Dmitri's seat empty in class. He contemplates throughout the day if his friend has fallen ill. But when he decides to drop by his house, nobody answers the door. When he decides to finally visit the hideout, the building is too snowed over to enter. A twist of anxiety builds in his chest, but all Victor can do is wait to hear word from his friend.

And by the time the snow melts, he does.

A police report releases about the body of an elementary-aged boy being found in a ditch. The report ruled it an accident. The boy must have slipped and fallen while out during the blizzard on Saturday. His neck snapped, and his body froze within hours. Death was imminent.

"At least he died quickly."

"I feel for the parents."

"Who would be out during a blizzard?"

The gossip grows with Victor's headache. He doesn't want to believe the reports. _Lies_ , he thinks for days. Until one day a new student occupies the empty seat in his classroom.

He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants to scream and cry that it's his fault. The fire that once possessed him douses, overcome by ice. Victor feels his insides rot while his body devolves into a puppet that follows and moves to the demands of others like Yavok and his parents.

Then the cold grows painfully hot. Burning. Boiling. He remembers feeling like he's been shoved onto a stove…too _hot_.

...

He wants to _die_.

...

"Victor."

His eyes squint open. The room is dimly lit, but he can see the outline of someone hovered over him. His throat aches as he swallows thickly. He suddenly remembers the name, and it comes out in a hoarse croak, "Yuri?"

"About damn time. Welcome back."

The voice sounds strange but familiar. Victor blinks away some of the fog in his vision until he's looking up at Yuri Plisetsky.


	12. Chapter 12

12\. Yuri P. - II

* * *

He had snagged the earliest one-way flight to Japan available.

Yuri fidgets throughout the nearly ten-hour ride. Sleep is never considered. When his eyelids begin to droop, something, like a bee sting, shocks him back to attention. Even if he had managed to find a moment of rest, the haunting image Victor had sent him would stalk his dreams. He can feel it. So, Yuri distracts himself by staring out of the dark window, hoping to see lights below instead of endless black.

He hadn't told anyone but his grandfather, who he had asked to lie to Yavok and Lilia that Yuri isn't feel well and will need a few days off. Yuri can't count the amount of texts and voicemails he's received from his coaches, but he knows, deep down, they'd make the situation worse. They'd slow him down. They'd do something irrational, something controlling. This way, Yuri has the freedom to make his own decisions, to prove to himself that he doesn't need elders to direct him. Though a hunch swells inside his stomach, the blonde inhales deeply as he sees the first hints of civilization.

A short ding brings his eyes up to the glowing seatbelt sign above his head.

"Attention, all passengers, we'll be landing in Saga in a few short minutes. Please fasten your seatbelts as we prepare to descend," the pilot announces in Russian.

Another announcement translates his in Japanese, and a third translates both into English.

As soon as the plane lands and the seatbelt sign shuts off, Yuri's up and standing. He shoulders past the gentleman seated next to him. Several snorts of annoyance trail behind him as he impatiently weaves his way through the single-file line of passengers. Yuri could care less about cutting or shoving anyone. He has one thing on his mind, and one thing only: find Victor.

The airport is laden with moving bodies. Yuri fights to stay afloat in the chaos, using any means possible to travel faster, including moving walkways. He has come to Japan with nothing but a backpack packed with an uneven amount of sweaters and pants and one international credit card to his name. During his preparation to find a quick ticket and a hotel, he had forgotten to pack snacks and shower supplies. He's running on nothing but airplane food. A headache builds between his eyes from the jet lag.

Outside, he hails a taxi. The driver knows absolutely no Russian or English, so Yuri is reduced to showing him the directions to his hotel. The driver punches them into the GPS, and the blonde sits through about another hour of incessant fidgeting until the taxi finally parks before the hotel entrance.

At least the hotel clerk can speak conversational English. Yuri goes on to ask her the quickest route to a place called _Yu-topia Katsuki_ , the supposed location where Victor has been imprisoned.

"Katsuki?" she says, blinking in recognition. "That place has gone out of business recently."

"How do you know?"

She shrugs. "My friend used to frequent it, but it hasn't been open for days. She told me nobody would answer the door, so she thinks the business must have gone under."

The blonde swallows thickly and accepts the key she hands him before heading for the elevator. He takes it up to his room on the fourth floor and falls onto the bed, inhaling the smell of new sheets. He doesn't realize how exhausted his body is until he's lying down. But Yuri can't afford to waste time. He forces himself to sit up from the alluring comforter. Then he removes his phone from his pocket and taps in the directions the hotel clerk gave to him. The route is about twenty minutes by foot.

Walking will help him think and help keep him awake. But Yuri needs to consider what measures to take. He needs a weapon., but all he has is about four ounces of bear mace—the acceptable amount on a plane. Before leaving, he knew either Russian or Japanese security would have caught him with a knife or gun in his backpack and sent his ass to an interrogation room, causing more trouble.

He checks the time on his phone: 8:01 AM. His thumb clicks the Messages, and Victor's latest text and image pop up. Sickness twists inside the blonde's stomach, but he can't take his eyes away from the macabre sight or his name spelled properly. Suddenly, thoughts fall into his mind:

What if it's a prank? What if someone has Victor's phone?

"Fuck." Those should've been things to consider before traveling internationally for ten hours. If only he hadn't been so impulsive. But what if this _isn't_ a prank? He'd rather waste sleep and a few hundred dollars on learning the truth than letting these questions continue to bog his mind.

Yuri slaps his cheeks and rises to his feet. He grabs his bear mace and shoves it into his back pocket. Anxiety begins to swell inside him as he heads out of the door with nothing but the bear mace, his wallet, and his phone to support him. Inhaling deeply, he exits the hotel, following the route the hotel clerk had given him with a close eye. His heart pounds restlessly in his chest. Not even entering the rink during a worldwide broadcast can compare to the fear that steadily coils around him like a unwanted fan girl.

Yuri Katsuki—the name of his enemy. He knows of the man who shares his name, but that's as far as their similarities lie. They had formally met during last year's banquet, when Victor seemed so taken by the drunken stranger. The Japanese skater has been on several of the top lists to the blonde's knowledge. However, he's never made himself out to be anything as grand as Victor. But perhaps there is something more.

He remembers now, so clearly. He remembers watching Victor and the other Yuri scurry off into another hallway like two love-struck teenagers. Yuri had followed the pair, curious as to how or why Victor, the world's greatest skater, would find anything interesting in a nobody.

He stuck his head around the corner and nearly gasped at the sight of the two men locked together in carnal embrace. He slapped his hand over his mouth the preserve his voice from giving him away. Although, even if he had made a sound, he doubts it would have peeled them away from each other.

Had Victor known the other Yuri prior to that encounter? It seemed the way they pressed up against each other, grinding, sweating, and tugging at their clothes, they had been waiting an eternity to reunite.

And all Yuri could do was watch and wonder what was so wrong with him that Victor would choose another—and not just anyone, but someone who shared his _name_.

Yuri had to look away before his body betrayed him.

He scratches his head vigorously, trying to erase the repressed memory from distracting him. Yuri turns his attention back to the GPS on his phone as it guides him across packed streets until finally turning into an alleyway and leading him to what he first believes to be a dead end. Then, as the teen surveys the vicinity, he comes across what may be the hot springs.

Japanese is still very foreign. Yuri had lucked out with the hotel clerk and the taxi driver. But there's no sign around to tell him whether he's at the hot springs or just a random house. With an irritated growl, he approaches the property. As Yuri steps up to the door and raises a fist to knock, he hesitates. The knot grows in his stomach, and he has to listen to it. Throughout his skating career, the blonde has done well to trust his intuition—it may not always win him the gold metal, but it has done well to keep him afloat in the figure skating world. And when his intuition kicks in like this, he has to take a step back and weigh his options.

Behind this door could be one of many things: Victor is alive; Victor is dead; Victor is still alive but mostly dead; or something else entirely. The blonde doubles back and crouches behind a parked car nearby. He needs to see if this is the correct address. He needs to confirm it with his own eyes before taking any kind of action to step inside.

He waits.

And waits.

Fatigue begins to creep back into him. Yuri yawns as his legs numb up. He repositions himself by sitting down on the cold ground. His eyes remain fixated on the door he had almost knocked. As time grows thicker, Yuri starts to wonder whether he had taken a wrong turn.

But, before he can stand up and backtrack, the door finally opens, and his heart lurches when the person he has been anticipating seeing since arriving steps out.

Yuri Katsuki.

His jaw tightens as the older skater zips up his coat and straightens the coat's collar to preserve some warmth. Rubbing his hands together, the other Yuri glances around, as if sensing something's amidst. Yuri ducks behind the car's bumper when the Japanese man's head starts to turn in his direction. His heart pounds in his chest, pulsing in his neck. The blood rises to his face when the sound of footfalls across the gravel enters his ears. He holds his breath, thinking it might give away his position. He watches the other Yuri's feet from the underneath the car head past the parked vehicle and into a neighboring street. His pace is brisk and purposeful. He could be late to somewhere or quickly grabbing something—the blonde isn't sure. What he does know is that the place definitely belongs to the Katsuki family, and that it may or may not be occupied by a family of psychos.

He goes for it.

 _Shit_. He has to.

It's for Victor. Maybe.

Hell, at this point it can only be for Victor. Yuri has no obligation to help the guy who he's watched win gold after gold after gold for his entire skating life. In truth though, Victor owes _him_. Shortly before his departure, Yuri had ordered the silver-haired Russian to choreograph a program for him. But Victor thought little of it enough to leave regardless. Yuri still feels the heat rise up from his anguish. But he wouldn't have flown all this way just to insist Victor choreograph a program for him—this is because of something much deeper. Something inexplicable.

Maintaining a crouched position, Yuri slinks back to the front door. His fingers curl around the doorknob and try to slowly open it, but the knob turns only a bit before stopping.

 _Locked_.

Time to look around the back. The blonde slinks around the side of the house, pressing his side against the brick. His hands tremble to the rushed beat of his heart. It's as if his body fears collapsing should he release the brick. Yuri keeps himself steady with evened breaths, kind of like how he's taught to breathe while performing.

At the first window he reaches, there's no chance of it budging, so he uses it to peer inside. He sees an empty living room area. Nothing out of the ordinary, so he continues forward, looking for any niche that may help him gain entrance into what could very well be Victor's captivity.

He finally finds one.

A window.

It's been left only slightly open, but it's enough for him to wiggle his fingers through and lift it just a bit higher to peer inside the house once more. He scopes the interior for any hint of movement. Yuri prepares to abandon his findings until the slightest change in the room alerts him. His heart drops along with his mouth.

"Victor," he says aloud, before clapping his hand over his mouth in case anyone in the neighboring houses had heard him.

It's true. The man has been held captive. And he has cleary suffered for his stay. Yuri can see the bandage across the older skaters chest. For a moment, he worries whether Victor is actually alive, until the subtle movement of breathing calms him briefly. He picks his jaw and surprise up before wedging a few more fingers into the small niche and pushing the window up.

"Victor," he whispers loudly.

But the other Russian doesn't respond.

Yuri licks his lips and surveys the surroundings. There doesn't seem to be anyone around, so he does the most idiotic thing imaginable—he breaks into someone's house. Entering the window is easier than he imagined, given his lithe body, Yuri slides through without any hindrance. Once his shoes land on soft carpet, he exhales a copious amount of tension from his body and then turns toward the man resting in the bed.

"Victor," he says, with more force in his tone. Yuri goes to shake him awake but recoils when he notices the furrowed brow across Victor's face deepen even in sleep.

 _Is he having a nightmare_?

Yuri presses two fingers to the silver-haired man's forehead and almost immediately backs away. The heat radiating off Victor's skin is insurmountable. Yuri knows what's going on. Anybody could recognize the problem without a doctor's knowledge. Victor's ill. _Severely_ ill.

Who would leave a sick person alone like this?

Yuri kneels down onto the sweat-soaked bed, peeling away some of the sheets from Victor's drenched form, cooling his above-average temperature. He watches the other man's chest rise and fall out of sync and listens to the labored breaths. Yuri wonders whether Victor's captor has drugged him and kept him locked to this bed. However, he doesn't find any restraints. As the blonde's eyes fall to the bandaged wound around Victor's thigh, a strong odor hits his nose. Yuri wrinkles his face before covering his hand to block the stench. It's not shit, but something else—like a carcass that's been rotting out in the sun for days.

Holding his breath, Yuri leans over and says Victor's name once again, resisting the urge to shake him or lift him up, fearing doing so might worsen his condition.

Yuri waits for some inkling that may be a reply—a small flinch, anything that may be a response.

And slowly but surely, he does.

The silver-haired man squints his eyes open as if for the first time. They take in their surroundings, perhaps unsure of how he had gotten to where he is.

"Yuri?" Victor's voice sounds like it should belong to someone else. It's unnatural.

"About damn time," the blonde replies through a long, painful sigh. "Welcome back." He could hug him. The only time the young Russian has ever wanted to hug someone besides his grandfather.

Victor blinks a few times. "Yuri?" he asks with slight surprise on his tongue. "What are you…doing here?"

He licks his lips and replies, "I got your text. I thought it was a joke at first, but you'd never call me Yuri over a text message unless you were being serious. I'm getting you outta this shithole." He wedges his hands underneath Victor's body, but the wince that comes out of the older man halts him.

" _Don't_ ," Victor hisses. "Leave me."

"What?" Yuri isn't sure he's heard him correctly.

Victor snatches one of the younger skater's wrists with strength that Yuri didn't realize he had. "I said leave me," he orders through gritted teeth. "Take Ms. Minako away instead."

The blonde retracts his hands. "Hell no. I can't leave you here with some psycho while you're like this."

But Victor shakes his head. "It's okay. Yuri won't hurt me."

He hates the sound of his own name roll of the other Russian's tongue with such fondness. "Then how the fuck did you get those wounds, _huh_?" He gestures to the bandages on Victor's chest and thigh.

"These…" Victor bites his lip and averts his eyes from the injuries. "These aren't as bad as they seem."

" _Bullshit_!"

"Yuri…get out of here."

"What's wrong with you? Has he drugged you? Why are you talking like this? Why the fuck would you send me that text?"

The silver-haired Russian grips the blonde's wrist like a lifeline. "It was impulsive of me to contact you…I'm sorry."

Yuri still can't comprehend what he's hearing. Something has to have happened in the four days since Victor left Russia and his life behind. He must have been forced. He must have been threatened that if he didn't comply, someone close to him would suffer instead. Victor has been selfish and arrogant in the past—ignoring Yavok's advice and choreographing his own programs. But that pride was minuscule compared to now. What could he have possibly endured to end up like this?

"I'm not leaving here without your dumbass," Yuri spats, trying to mask any anxiety with insults. "Yavok will kick my ass if I return to Russia empty-handed." He pries the older skater's hand off his wrist and searches the vicinity for something like a crutch that could support Victor's weight. If Yuri had been older and filled out more, he may have been able to pick the other man up into his arms and carry him. But sadly, his lithe body, which, until now, he has seen as a blessing, can do very little to improve this situation.

He lifts himself from the bed and scurries over to a closet, sliding the door open and rifling through the various clothes for something sturdy enough to hold a full-grown man up without breaking. Nothing.

"Yuri," the voice from the bed calls him back.

"What?"

Victor breathes. "Ms. Minako."

"What?"

"In the next room over to the left," Victor explains, "there's a woman. Tied to a bed. Untie her. Please."

Yuri would normally throw another curse word or two his way and tell him to get up, but, based on what he's seen of Victor thus far, he has to trust his word. As urgent as he is to get the other Russian out of this place, he knows Victor won't go anywhere with anyone unless he _wants_ to. Yuri lingers next to the bed, afraid the moment he leaves the room something will happen to either him or the older skater. He inhales a breath of courage to calm his shaking body before cautiously exiting.

The blonde peeks his head out into the hallway. To his right rests the living room he had seen through the first window earlier. It's just as vacant as when he had looked in previously. He turns and heads for the nearest door in the opposite direction, which has been left ajar. Yuri's heart pounds like a drum against his ribcage as he reaches up and presses his palm against the wood, opening it.

His eyes instantly lock onto the bed, and his heart stutters. He wants to believe what he sees is just as much of a hallucination as seeing Victor's text was. But the longer he stares at the person splayed across the mattress like some animal waiting to be tanned, the weaker his disbelief grows.

Victor wasn't lying.

The woman looks roughly in her thirties. A black piece of tape covers her muffled cries. Thick tears pour down the sides of her face, and her limbs have been restrained with what looks to be socks.

He rushes over to her side and rips the tape off her mouth. The woman stifles a wail, and Yuri promptly apologizes when he notices the red flush form around her lips. Pieces of peach fuzz remain stuck to the tape.

The woman starts speaking rapidly to him in Japanese.

Yuri shakes his head, unable to decipher her words. Then he presses a finger to his lips and shushes her. He hasn't scoped the interior enough to know if they're in the clear for now. It's very likely that psycho may have cameras or audiotapes hidden in the entire house. He may be on his way back here right now.

Still trying to wrap his mind around everything that's going on, Yuri reaches for the woman's restraints. He grits his teeth as he loosens the fabric's grip around the woman's wrist. Once he's loosened it enough, she manages to wiggle her hand free. She's still trying to tell him something, but all Yuri can do is shush her and tell her in English that he's helping her. Her eyes widen slightly, seemingly understanding him. Then she shuts her mouth and lets him work on the restraint around her other wrist. Once both of her hands are free, she sits up and starts working on her ankles without any more help from the blonde. Her eyes briefly meet his, and she gives him a grateful nod.

"Thank you," she says in broken English.

He nods back and then remembers the reason he had come here. "Can you help me with Victor?" When she tilts her head quizzically, he simplifies the question. "Victor?" Then points to the other bedroom. "Can you help?"

"Victor?" She blinks and finally pries her last ankle out of its restraint. "Victor Nikiforov?"

" _Yes_!"

She looks away and then touches her neck.

That's when Yuri finally notices the purplish marks wrapped around the skin like a necklace. The blonde can only imagine what this woman has endured. But he shakes the thought from his mind. "Yes, Victor. He needs help.," he explains slowly, hoping she can pick up a few words. Then he beckons to her with his hand. "This way."

He leads her back into the neighboring bedroom where Victor still lies pale and sickly. Yuri notices the shock cloak the woman's face. She slaps a hand to her mouth and then slowly approaches the broken man. As she stares down at him, Yuri comes over to her side.

"We need to get him out of here," he says, tapping her on the side of her arm and nodding to the open window.

He waits for the woman to say or do something.

"Well?"

Her gaze lingers on the escape route.

The sound of a door creaking open startles both of them. Yuri's heart stutters in his chest as footfalls hurry quickly across the floor. Someone's approaching fast. He turns back to the woman, who's no longer standing beside him. She's busy crawling out of the window, sliding her thin body through with ease and falling out of sight.

The blonde prepares to follow her when another figure in his peripheral vision causes him to turn toward the doorway. The color drains from his face as the man who shares his name glares back at him.


	13. Chapter 13

13\. Yuri - VI

* * *

The morning creeps up surreptitiously. But once Yuri feels the slightest ray of sunlight on his skin, he's up and alert. He instantly curses to himself after seeing the time—it's twenty minutes before nine. The pharmacy has been open for nearly two hours. His alarm never went off. He fights the urge to throw the clock across the room because Victor's still asleep.

He pauses, staring down at the husk that is Victor. His pale skin has grown even paler in the night despite the heavy heat radiating off him. Yuri presses his palm to the Russian's forehead and almost immediately recoils it. Victor's brow furrows in a painful tightness that makes Yuri's hands clench into fists. What can he do while he's away? What is there to do while he leaves Victor unattended? He doesn't want to leave his lover alone in such a state. But if he's to help Victor in any way, he must trust that in the time it will take for him to head to the pharmacy, purchase what he needs, and then return home, nothing serious will happen beyond what already has.

Yuri's eyes linger on the bandages across Victor's chest and thigh. He pulls a thin blanket over his silver-haired prince to preserve what fraction of Victor he has left. The blanket may do more harm than good. Yet Yuri can't bring himself to remove it. Seeing the evidence of Victor's torture only makes him want to smack himself over the head for his incompetence. Instead, he decides to do something both risky but possibly life-persevering.

He creaks the window open just enough that nobody nearby would notice, but also enough that a cool air seeps into his bedroom. It may not be the wisest decision for a sick person, but, given the circumstance, Yuri needs any means to cool down Victor.

He holds his breath as he takes one final look at his lover. Leaning over Victor's form, he whispers, "I'll be back soon, my love. Just hold on." He watches the Russian's eyelashes flicker as if he can hear him in his unconscious state. Yuri exits briskly out of his room, shrugs on a coat, and unlocks the front door. He stops to realize that both Axel and Ms. Minako have gone unattended since last night.

A thought comes to mind before he leaves.

He unlocks the door to the closet.

Axel sits there, beneath the aisle of coats with her knees hiked up to her chest. Her gaze meets him slowly.

Yuri grabs her by the arm and pulls her out. "If you want to eat, you need to do something for me first." He leads her back to his bedroom. "Watch Victor for me. If you leave this room, you'll be joining your family." He nods to the cracked window. "If you escape, I'll hunt you down. It'll be wise for you to remain here." Yuri had made a promise to Victor to end this side of him for good. But if Victor's wellbeing is on the line, he needs to use any resources he has available.

Axel's eyes stare at his sickly lover with indifference. Yuri grabs her shoulders and brings her attention back to him, leering at her.

"Got it?"

A subtle nod is all he needs from her. When she does, he releases his vice-like grip and heads out the front door, locking it behind him.

The crips November air hits his face. He considers going back inside and grabbing a scarf but perishes the thought when an image of Victor's sickly form comes to him. The longer he stalls, the less time his lover has. He glances briefly at the space where the hot spring sign used to occupy. He had gotten rid of it around the same time he had butchered his father and sister.

Yuri starts down the street toward the pharmacy. It's about a five minute walk from his house, but, with enough speed, he should make it there in less.

He makes it there in about three minutes.

"Welcome," the clerk says, but Yuri ignores him and heads straight to the medicine aisle in search of over the counter antibiotics. He looks specifically for triple antibiotics or oral antibiotics—anything that will work swiftly and do its job right without the need for an ambulance.

"Can I help you with anything, sir?"

Yuri looks up from the copious amount of pharmaceuticals to see another clerk standing there with a thoughtful smile.

"Umm, yes. Do you have any triple antibiotics? Or anything that might be good for infection?"

The clerk purses her lips. "Well, for infection, I'd recommend this." She kneels down and takes a brand of antibiotics from the shelf, showing it to Yuri. "It's a bit pricey, but a lot of our customers have loved it for—"

"I'll take it."

She blinks. "Oh, okay."

Yuri takes it from her and heads for the check-out area. He fidgets through the line, imagining what he might come home to. Victor dead. Axel gone. The thoughts pollute his mind. He shouldn't have let her out of the closet. He shouldn't have put Victor's life into a child's hands. He curses under his breath and pushes his glasses back into place on the bridge of his nose. A few eyes wander to him.

 _What the fuck are you all looking at_? He wants to snap. Yuri clicks his tongue and fights the anxiety back with pleasant thoughts of Victor's swift recovery. The moment the person in front of him receives her receipt, he's placing the antibiotics down on the counter. The force startles both the woman and the cashier.

"Hello, sir," he says, and Yuri gives him a curt hello back. "Is that all you'll be buying today?"

"Yes."

"That'll be 3200 yen, please."

Yuri pays in cash and takes the antibiotics but doesn't take the receipt or any change despite the cashier calling behind him. He hurries out of the store and back toward home. His heart races between each step until it's pulsing in his neck. His mind continues to haunt him with the "what if" all the way back to the front door.

He unlocks it and opens. Already, he knows something's wrong the moment he steps inside. Yuri almost laughs at how pathetically naive he's been. Just the other night, he was being so careful. But now he's been reduced to making common mistakes that even the foolishest of people can pick up on.

From the get-go, he senses the difference in temperature. The window he had left open for Victor shouldn't make the house this chilly. He shivers as he shrugs off his coat, throwing both it and the antibiotics onto the couch. He stalks into the kitchen, grabs the first kitchen knife he finds and then heads straight for his bedroom. He hides the knife within his sleeve, preparing himself for anything.

The window is open as expected.

But who he finds surprises even him.

Axel is nowhere in sight.

Someone he doesn't recognize stands between him and Victor. At first, he mistakes the boy for a girl due to his short and lithe physique. But as Yuri steps closer, he realizes he's seen the boy before. He can't exactly put his finger on where or how, but he knows they've crossed paths.

"Who are you?" he finally asks in English.

The blonde boy inhales deeply. "You're Yuri Katsuki, right?"

He cocks a brow. So, he was right. "You know me?"

"We've met."

"When?"

"At the Grand Prix Finals banquet last year."

Yuri hums and nods slowly. Now he knows who he's looking at. "Oh, right. Yuri Plisetsky. Victor's shadow, as some would say." He notices the slight tightening of the other Yuri's jaw, and a crooked grin begins to form on his face. He's hit a nerve. "Why are you here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" The blonde boy gestures to the man lying half-conscious in the bed behind him. "I'm here to save Victor."

"Save him?" Yuri blinks. "From what?"

" _You_ , of course. You fucking psychopath," the other Yuri hisses between gritted teeth. "I'm taking him to a hospital and then sending your ass to jail for kidnapping and whatever the fuck else you've done to him." His eyes briefly fall onto the bandages across Victor's body.

But Yuri remains calm. "Kidnapping? Let me ask you, how did you know Victor was here?"

"The fuck kinda question is that?"

"You're in my house," Yuri says with a straight face. "I don't know what they teach you in Russia, but, when you break into someone else's home here in Japan, it's polite to answer the homeowner's questions."

"Victor disappeared, and then I got a text from him," the blonde answers before taking out his phone and showing Yuri a text message and a dark image.

Yuri narrows his eyes to attain a better understanding of the picture.

"Do you kill people?" The other Yuri asks with a hint of trill in his voice.

"What kind of question is that?" He slaps the same question right back into the intruder's face.

"Fuck you. Whether the image is real or not, one thing's for sure—Victor's hurt and sick. He needs a hospital."

"And you think that's what he wants?"

The teenager tenses. "What?"

"I bought medicine for him," Yuri explains. "Victor's in my care. He doesn't need anyone else but me."

"He needs a _real_ doctor, not some fucking over the counter shit!" The other Yuri argues.

But he shakes his head. "Then let's see what he decides."

"There is no need to decide. I'm taking him to a hospital."

His grip on the knife's hilt strengthens. Yuri sucks in a deep breath. He could easily slice the kid's throat open, but he made a promise to Victor. "You'd be doing so against his will."

"If that means saving him then fine." He glances down at his phone and pauses. Yuri seems to know why.

"Don't know the number for the police, do you?"

The blonde's blue eyes leer back at him. Yuri knows from the expression that he's right. Even if he did know the number, Yuri has taken a few measures to prevent anyone from calling to or from this house. Phone bills are expensive so getting rid of them has helped push the outside world farther away.

"How about we make a deal?" Yuri proposes, his gaze wondering down to Victor's pale form on his bed.

"Who the fuck would make a deal with you?"

"Someone who's smart."

The other Yuri wipes sweat off his forehead, clenching his hands into fists. Even with the cool air seeping into the room, he can't stop sweating. His nerves have made him vulnerable—Yuri can sense the tension in the other Yuri's face. He's trying to keep himself from falling apart in front of an adversary. But it's like an injured deer staring down a hungry wolf. Someone's going to die, and it's quite obvious who has the disadvantage.

"I'm going to give you a choice: you can walk out of here, unscathed, as long as you promise never to speak of this to anyone. Or, you can try to fight me, and see who lives and who dies. The winner gets Victor."

The other Yuri licks his lips and glances behind him.

Silence wedges between them, and Yuri's patience as does Victor's health begin to wear thin.

He slides the knife out from its hiding place. "Well?"

The blonde's eyes widen for the briefest moment before returning to meet his. "Fine," he says through a short sigh. "I'll go." He takes a step forward, toward Yuri, intending to leave through the front door.

But he raises the knife, halting the other Yuri in his tracks. "Not this way." He gestures with his head. "Out the window."

The boy hesitates, looking back to Victor agin, as if for some security or to apologize.

"Changed your mind?" Yuri asks.

The other Yuri steps toward the window and puts a hand down on the rail. "I just have one more question: What do you intend to do with Victor?"

Yuri smiles, perhaps there's no harm in admitting the truth. "I'll love him for the rest of our lives."

The other Yuri scoffs. "Sounds fruity as hell."

"That's because you don't know what true love is. Go on. Live your life. Find out for yourself."

The blonde purses his lips. "Okay."

All of a sudden, a cloud of yellowish spray comes at him. Yuri turns his head. His glasses block most of the attack, but some of the spray gets into his eyes. A fiery pain courses through his skull. He falls, the back of his head hits the wall, and his glasses go flying into the unknown. Yuri rubs his eyes furiously with one hand, while he holds a scream from prying through his teeth. Strong weight falls on top of him, and a hand struggles with his for the knife. Yuri blindly evades the hand, clenching his fingers tightly around the weapon's hilt. If he loses his grip, he'll lose everything—his life. His future. Victor. Everything.

 _No_.

Fighting both the immeasurable pain in his eyes and the weight on top of him, Yuri wiggles his armed hand free to stab. He feels the blade sink into something hard, and a sharp grunt escapes another's mouth. When he retracts the blade, hot liquid trickles across his collarbone and cheek. The weight swiftly lifts off of him, and Yuri scrambles to his feet, using the wall for help. His heart races with renewed vigor. He had almost forgotten this feeling…

The feeling of being in control of someone's _life_.

Another grunt. The blade must have done its job well.

Yuri wants to see.

Despite the searing pain in his eyes that's rapidly forming a headache between his brows, he squints his eyes open to assess the damage.

The other Yuri is hunched over, cradling one hand under his opposite armpit. His youthful face has contorted into a strained expression. Just like Yuri, the blonde is doing his best to mask the amount of pain he's in.

"It hurts, doesn't it?"

"Fuck you," hisses the blonde.

"You could've been out of this mess. Why fight back?"

"Because I don't like you."

Yuri stifles a laugh. "Clearly."

Despite the scuffle and his weakened vision, the blonde's still standing in between Yuri and his lover. Victor's body tenses in his comatose-like state. All three of them are in pain—each one feeling a different degree.

Something catches Yuri's blurred attention. He notices the can lying on the rug, but he isn't sure what the words on it read. He can only assume given what's happened that it's—

"Mace?" he asks, returning his squinted gaze to his adversary.

"Bear mace," the other Yuri reveals.

Yuri releases an amused hum. "What's that saying? Never bring a knife to a gun fight? Maybe you should've considered bringing something better than mace to a knife fight." He rearranges the weapon in his hand, caressing the hilt with his thumb. "You might've won."

"Shut up. I'm not dead yet, fucker."

But this time, the injured deer has been cornered, and the hungry wolf can smell fresh blood—and a fatal opening.

Yuri sighs deeply.

He takes a step forward, and the other Yuri takes one back. Another step, and the back of the blonde's knees hits the side of the bedspread. Cornered.

Beneath his closed mouth, Yuri slides his tongue across his teeth, ready to pounce on his prey. His other self has resurfaced and starts goading him on—telling him where to sink the blade—a soft space of skin between the boy's neck and collarbone seems like a promising area. His heart's skipping like a child down a street, pumping hot blood throughout his limbs, preparing the wolf to strike. He thumbs the hilt of the blade eagerly.

The other Yuri still cradles a hand beneath his opposite armpit. A patch of dark blood forms beneath, and streams of red trickle between his fingers and onto the rug. Yuri doesn't realize how much he's missed the sight of fresh blood until now. His grin extends, and he knows the teenager has noticed the sinister look. Yuri had tried to keep it to himself—but his excitement has proven stronger.

He had promised to put this side of him behind.

He had promised to never kill again.

He had promised to become reformed.

He had promised _Victor_.

Promises…

Promises…

Promises…

Fuck.

 _Forgive me, Victor._

Yuri stalks forward, raising his knife in the air. The blonde's face contorts into that of a cornered deer—exactly what Yuri's been envisioning. He knows his end is close.

But then something hard hits Yuri in the back. A sharp pain extends up his spine. Curiously, he swirls around to see Axel standing there, eyes wide and mouth open. Her tiny hands shake.

Yuri reaches around his back to feel the hilt of another knife sticking out of him. The pain elevates. His breathing grows short. Yuri nearly gags, but collides with the wall and uses it to support his weight. His fingers release his weapon and his other hand lingers on the hilt of Axel's blade. Instinctually, he wants to take it out and rid his body of the foreign object. But, if Yuri has learned anything from the type of work he's done, removing a knife from such a precarious position will spell disaster.

So he reluctantly lets his fingers slide off the hilt, and his eyes turn to Axel. But, somehow, he had anticipated this result. It's almost laughable.

The longer he stares at her, the more he sees Takeshi's face. A fire grows within him, unable to be doused by the promise he made to Victor.

But, before anybody can do anything, all eyes fall to the groaning mass lying in Yuri's bed, who has just enough strength to grab the other Yuri by his hoodie, clutching the fabric as if it were a lifeline.

"Victor," Yuri breathes, almost relieved.

His eyes open to reveal those crystal orbs. They stare straight at him with meaning. Then Victor mouthes something that only Yuri could understand. His mouth drops. He wants to say no, but Victor's gaze intensifies.

All of a sudden, the sound of sirens rings through from the window, followed closely by pounding against the front door.

"Police! Open up!"

Everyone stops.

Yuri's heart stutters. The pain in his back starts to numb from a rush of adrenaline, giving him a short reprieve. He looks back to Victor, for some kind of security. His lover's gaze still holds onto that intensity. He mouths the same words that only Yuri would understand.

The other Yuri and Axel stand on the opposite side of the room, prepared to take him on should he choose to fight.

Gritting his teeth together, Yuri swirls around and forces himself out of the window just as the front door bangs open.

 _Forgive me, Victor_ , he echoes.


	14. Chapter 14

14\. Victor- VI

* * *

Victor reaches for the open window, watching the last image of Yuri leave the house. Leave him.

 _It's okay_ , he tries to tell himself. _It'll be okay._

Yuri Plisetsky starts toward the window, perhaps prepared to chase after Yuri, but Victor finds some strength to grab his hoodie and keep the teenager from pursuing his lover. He looks down at Victor with bemusement.

"Don't," Victor croaks, watching him intently.

The blonde's mouth drops, and his brow furrows as if to say, "Are you fucking kidding—?"

He's interjected when three men dressed in dark uniforms flood into the bedroom. All armed with guns.

"Two males, one female," one of them notes.

"A child," another adds with a short trill.

One of them lowers his weapon and advances closer to Yurio. "One is injured. Apparent stab wound."

Despite his fogged mind and vision, Victor notices the pronounced frown on the teen's face.

"Search the premise."

"He's not here," Yurio says before any of them can spread out. "It's just us. He escaped through the window."

 _No_.

"How long ago?" One of the policemen asks.

"He just left."

 _Shut up_.

The policemen exchange looks.

The leader nods to Victor. "How is he?"

"Sick. Badly," the teen says through gritted teeth. "He needs an ambulance."

The lead policeman nods and starts speaking into a radio he had stuffed away in his back pocket.

 _Shut up. Shut up. Shut up._

If they catch Yuri…

Before Victor…

He fights the boiling heat in his head that threatens to explode his brains and every stabbing pain that tries to convince him to give up. Victor promptly sits up.

"Victor," Yurio ignores his own bloody wound to grab him, just as the older skater becomes top-heavy and leans over the side of the bed, about the fall. One of the cops helps the teen lean him back onto the bed.

"Stop," the blonde says. "Lie down."

But Victor doesn't want to lie down. He grips Yuri's wrist and glares at him. "Don't you dare… _hurt_ him."

The younger skater watches him with disbelief. Anyone would. Victor can see Axel's eyes widen in his peripheral vision. The little girl is the first to realize that Victor's already made his decision.

But the teen still fights logic. "Stop 're going to the hospital. Stay down."

Victor begins thrashing.

The cop helping Yuri keep him down calls for backup. But the blonde tells the other approaching cop to stay back. It'll make things worse.

Victor's entire body is screaming for some sort of stability. His mind has been clouded with what ifs—What if Yuri's dead? What if the police have arrested him? What if he hates Victor?

What if…

The hands on him push down with more force, and all Victor wants to do is get away from them and find some sort of reprieve.

"LET ME _GOOO_ —!" he wails.

"We need help over here!"

He begins to see tunnel vision. Victor continues to thrash, claw, and wail at the top of his lungs even though it feels like nails are scratching around inside his throat and chest. He doesn't wish this kind of agony on his worst enemy. The hands continue to push him down, keeping him contained—caged. The brief amount of strength he had somehow attained wavers, and Victor finally drifts back down. His world darkens into an endless void of black.

 _Yuri, I'm sorry._

He sees a tunnel with a light beyond it. Victor first assumes he's dead. But if he were dead, Yuri wouldn't be standing at the far end waiting for him with a warm smile and arms out wide. He's dressed to the nine in a black leotard with purple embroidery—the way it shines in the light makes him look like some kind of ethereal being. His hair has been slicked back, and his deep-set eyes have been ridden of his marring glasses. At first, Victor isn't sure he's looking at the same person until the other man's ice skates glimmer, assuring him it's indeed Yuri.

But, before Victor can advance, something cracks. Pieces of concrete begin to fall around him. If Victor doesn't move, Yuri will be left alone. The tunnel runs far, and Victor wonders if he'll be able to reach the other side before it collapses.

He goes for it.

He has to.

It's for Yuri.

He dodges what he can, and, as he dodges each piece of heavy concrete, he realizes he's floating like he's on—

—ice.

A gaping hole spontaneously appears in his path, and Victor swiftly jumps and spins in midair, avoiding it, and lands gracefully.

Applause.

Victor looks up, the tunnel has been supplanted by rows and rows of stands packed with cheering people. Some scream his name, hoping to be heard, and others scream just for the sake of it.

Victor hears the pulsing sound of music beneath their applause. But he doesn't know what the routine is. Within the crowd, he sees Yavok screaming. He's not screaming out of delight; he's screaming because Victor doesn't know the routine. But Victor isn't worried about that.

Where's Yuri?

He continues to search the stands for his love. But the more unknown faces he finds, his heart sinks deeper. Flashing lights blind him, irritating his eyes. Using his raised hand as a shield, he squints through the barrage of pictures. Dark blobs appear in his vision, marring his search.

Through it all, the person he's desperate to find appears at the opposite end of the rink.

"Yuri?" Victor lowers his arm and skates toward him, but he swiftly stops when the other man puts a hand up.

Yuri's eyes leer at Victor, and his mouth moves. Nobody else seems to see him but the Russian. And he's also the only one who understands what Yuri's saying:

"You never loved me," he mouths and turns around. Something glimmers against the onslaught of flashing lights. Victor's eyes widen at the knife sticking out from his lover's lower back.

Victor reaches for him. " _No_!"

Yuri is gone. The rink is gone. The flashing lights are gone. The applause is gone. His hand sticks straight into the air, groping at nothing. A bead of sweat trickles down the side of his forehead. Victor breathes heavily, each intake causes a sharp pain inside his chest. He winces as he blinks at a ceiling.

"God damnit," comes a voice next to him.

Victor turns his head, unable to twist his entire body. He's been wrapped in several sheets like a cacoon. He meets a pair of blue eyes in the bed side him.

"Yurio."

The blonde's brow rises and a slight twitch of a smile crosses his face. It's a rare sight coming from him. "Guess that means you're all right." His head's been propped up by a stack of pillows, and he's dressed in a hospital gown. "Doc says you're not one hundred percent good though."

"Doc?" Victor goes to sit up. As he does, he notices the tube sticking out of his arm and blinks. "What happened?"

"Ms. Minako, or whatever her name is, called the police right when she got home. She doesn't live far from the Katsukis. When they got there, they found the three of us." He notices the curious brow rise on Victor's face. "You, me, and Axel. You started to lose it when…before we brought you here. You were thrashing around and screaming like a kid throwing a tantrum," the teenager explains. "Guess it caused so much stress on you that you passed out. The ambulance came and took us here. The doctor fixed us both up." He pulls up his hospital gown and shows a patch underneath his armpit.

Seeing evidence of the blonde's recovery, Victor grabs a handful of the fabric on his hospital gown and pulls it up to see two new bandages wrapped around his chest and inner thigh. A deep sigh releases from his nose. "What about Axel?"

"She's safe."

"And Yuri?"

The teenager licks his lips.

Victor's heart lurches. "Yurio?"

"Stop worrying about him. You're safe. That's all that matters."

"Where?"

"God damnit—"

" _Where_?" Victor stresses.

The blonde's gaze falls to floor. His jaw tightens, and Victor knows he wants to keep lying, but Victor's known Yuri Plisetsky almost the entirety of the teen's skating career. He recognizes that look all too well. "I don't know," he finally admits, biting back some aggression. "Nobody does."

Victor's head falls back onto his pillow, sinking in deep _. Nobody knows where he is. Thank goodness._ He sighs heavily. The sharp ache across his body numbs for a few relaxing moments as he stares up at the ceiling again. He finally remembers what he had told Yuri and _only_ Yuri.

"You know, don't you?" The teenager asks, still fighting back his voice from getting any higher than normal volume.

Victor keeps quiet.

"Why?" He asks. "Why are you doing this to yourself? To me? To everyone we care about?"

"Yurio," he says calmly.

"What?"

"Do you really want to know why?"

Victor notices the teen shift in his peripheral vision and then hears a short grunt of pain. "Yes."

"Because I've lived my entire life doing what others tell me to do. Every day I spend on the ice, I feel like I'm in some kind of frozen cage being watched by millions of people who think they know me based on what they read online or see on the television. I'm just a fucking puppet made to perform again and again with no way out. The one reprieve I ever had was on the night of last year's banquet—when I met Yuri Katsuki. Call me insane, it wouldn't be the first time someone has." He stifles a weak laugh. "Call me an idiot, I know you would. But it won't change how I feel."

The blonde's eyes widen. "Not even the fact that the man you're infatuated with is a fucking _psycho_?"

Victor holds in a retort. "A long time ago, I failed to save someone I cared about. He died because I…" He swallows thickly. "Because I killed him. Because I didn't consider his feelings."

A wedge of silence comes in between them, and, for the first time ever, the teenager doesn't appear to know what to say. His hands ball into fists so tightly that Victor notices his knuckles whiten. His jaw moves, seemingly searching for a way out of this quiet.

"Don't do it," he finally says between clenched teeth.

Victor turns his head toward the blonde. "Do what?"

"Go after him."

"Yurio…"

"Dont!" This time, when their eyes meet, the teenager's are full of tears. They trickle down his cheeks with force. "Please, don't."

Victor's stomach churns, and his mouth drops in shock. Never before has Yuri Plisetsky looked so _desperate_ and _childish_. He's an ugly crier—his eyes squint and his cheeks puff out with firm redness, which is strange given how he has the kind of face that even women are envious of.

The silver-haired Russian composes himself, and then forms a warm smile. "It's okay," he says. "I'm doing this because I want to, not for anybody else. So, please, don't cry for me."

He quietly listens to the blonde's sobbing for some time, like he's listening to a broken record. He hears the pain behind each sob. The desire for him to change his mind, return to Russia, and continue skating comes out of each tear on Yuri Plisetsky's face. But Victor is not the man he was stepping off the plane from Russia to Japan. He's not the figure skater, the artist, the entertainer—he's none of those things.

Now, he's just one person…

…who's infatuated with the wrong person.

"Yuri," he says as the teenager wipes his face dry. "It's snowing."

"What?" The blonde asks before turning his head the other way and looking out the large window. "Why does it matter?"

Victor shakes his head. For the first time since he's woken up, Victor realizes several hours have passed—at least. Tiny snowflakes float down from the darkened sky. His eyes briefly wander to a clock on the wall that reads 5:32 PM.

He sits up, wincing at the sharp pain in his chest. A short cough escapes him. "What day is it?"

"November 29th," answers the blonde through a few sniffs.

"How long have I been in the hospital?"

"Since this morning."

Victor peels off the sheets and slides to the edge of the bed. The IV remains stuck inside his arm. Clenching his teeth and fists simultaneously, he pulls the needle out. A few drops of blood hit the bed sheets and floor. Then his feet touch the cold tile, and he lifts his weight onto his heels, letting go of the bed. But the moment ends swiftly, and he finds himself sitting back down on the mattress. The fog in his head makes him teeter, and Victor tries to eradicate it by massaging the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. The motion seems to help.

"The anesthesia," says the teenager, seemingly knowing. "It's still in effect. You need to rest."

"I'm tired of resting."

"Victor," Yurio says through a sigh.

"I'm going." He leans forward again, and his feet find some stability this time. The teenager watches silently as Victor regains his footing and maintains it.

"You're an idiot," he says.

"I know," Victor says.

"I hate you."

"I know."

The blonde clenches his bed sheets and slides his jaw from side to side. "I've always hated you."

Victor gives an understanding nod.

"And yet…"

The snow falls faster.

"…I'll always envy you."


	15. Chapter 15

15\. Yuri & Victor VII

* * *

 **YURI**

Only when the sounds of sirens fade away does he seek shelter.

Yuri comes to a rest beneath a bridge somewhere in the city. How long he has been running, he isn't sure. Maybe a couple of hours? The November air hasn't felt colder than it does today. And it's a very important day—one he had forgotten, given the amount of attention he's sacrificed to others in the last week. He breathes in a short breath, only able to gasp little-by-little but never deeply. His adrenaline had done well to quell the ache in his lower back, but, as the sweat beneath his sweater dries, the reprieve departs. The ache spreads quickly through his spine, and all Yuri can do is grunt and wince and debate whether leaving the knife in place is still his best bet. This must have been what Victor's felt like the past few days—in constant agony. Yuri grows sick. He hasn't eaten all day, but the thought of Victor's suffering makes him nearly vomit.

He leans against the cement wall, using it for support as he catches his breath and contemplates his next move.

He left Victor.

Alone.

With the enemy.

Yuri grabs a fistful of hair and grits his teeth. How could he have left Victor alone with the enemy? He had promised to…

Victor's words fall in his head.

"Meet me there," he had mouth. "You know where." Yuri still feels his crystal orbs staring intently at him.

 _Right. I know._

But first thing's first. He can't see Victor again with this thing sticking out of him. Despite what he had thought before, this knife is causing more harm than good being attached to him. It's a reminder of his ignorance.

A soft chuckle escapes him. _Ignorance_. His father used to chastise him for being so. If he did or said something inappropriate and with little regard for others, the back of his father's hand would meet his cheek.

But then he realizes that the longer this foreign object remains with him, the pain between him and Victor will remain unbalanced. Yuri's been selfish. He's hurt people he loves. And now that he's like this. He has the chance to understand Victor's side. He wants to understand how Victor's felt for the past few days—feel the same pain he caused his prince. Only then can they really be equals.

Yuri holds in the deepest breath he can muster and coils his fingers around the hilt of the knife. He wishes he had something to bite down on. His heart stutters. He squeezes his eyes shut, preparing the mental countdown.

 _One….two…three…_

The scream gets caught in his throat. He pushes it back while also pulling the foreign object out. He can feel it scrape across every fiber of his being until finally its in his hand. Yuri gasps, able to inhale deep breaths again. A bead of sweat trickles down the nape of his neck. The red kitchen knife drips tiny drops of blood onto the ground, becoming lost in the grass. His lower back starts pumping like a heart beat. He can feel the blood oozing out and staining his sweater. But Yuri does his best to mask the pain by thinking about Victor—the level of torture he's endured is nothing compared to his silver-haired prince's.

He examines the weapon for a few moments, feeling the hot blood on his hand cool rapidly within the November air.

To think that a child had done this. Granted, he's almost proud of Axel. She had all the reason in the world to stab him. In some twisted way, Yuri's glad it had been her and not the other Yuri. He just wishes it hadn't happened in front of Victor.

But he had anticipated this even before reuniting with his Russian prince. Ever since he killed his father and sister, he knew his life was bound to become a life where he vicarious teeters on the edge of death. And now Death has responded.

He lets the knife fall from his numb grasp and into the grass, where it rests, judging his decision to disconnect it from him. Meanwhile, an electric current crawls up the entire side of his body, sending a message to his brain:

 _You shouldn't have done that._

However, Yuri has already started to accept what's happening.

He lifts his sweater between shaking hands, his grip around the fabric is weak and pathetic. The moment he sees a blob of dark red, he shoves his sweater back down to conceal it.

The only wish he has, today of all days, is to see Victor. Seeing his prince's face will sate any other desire.

Before he make his move, his other side buzzes. At first, he mistakes it for his body responding to the loss of blood. Then he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out his phone.

Yuri's eyes widen at the name. He instantly slides his thumb across the screen to unlock the phone. He raises the device to his ear and inhales another deep, strained breath.

"Mom?"

 **VICTOR**

Victor barely makes it to the door before realizing that he's in a hospital where personnel are running back and forth throughout the building. How the hell will he be able to get out of here without being seen?

It's impossible.

He backtracks and heads toward the window. Even in the snowy dark, he can see that he's on the second floor. He could take a chance and make a leap of faith, maybe construct a rope out of his bedsheet. But time is of the essence. He may be too late to meet Yuri.

"Just go. I'll distract them."

Victor whips his head around to face the blonde. He almost isn't sure if he's heard him correctly. "What?"

Yurio starts shoving the sheets off of him. He slides the edge of his bed and plants his feet on the floor. Then he nods to the door. "There's a fire alarm right outside the room. I'll pull it. Once I've pulled it, the staff will go crazy. I'll try to lure them away, but that's your chance to run for the elevator, which should be down the hall and to the left. You have one chance. Make it count."

"How do you know this?"

"I saw it when emergency staff brought us in this morning," he explains. "Right before drugging us up and putting us to sleep. Now, are we doing this, or have you actually come to your damn senses?"

One important question still hangs like a cloud over Victor's head. "Why are you helping me?"

The blonde massages his temples and groans like he wants to say something else. "Because, no matter what I say, you've already made your decision. You're a selfish bastard, Victor Nikiforov."

He stifles a laugh, feeling a sharp ache in his chest that he presses two fingers against to quell. Then he nods in agreement. Victor has known Yurio since he started skating professionally. He has seen him in action and learned the younger skater's strengths and weaknesses. And along the way, Yurio has learned his superior's strengths and weaknesses as well.

"Besides, I hate hospitals," Yurio adds, cracking his neck and twisting his torso until he winces.

He coaxes Victor over to the door, and they both peer out the small window.

"Thank you," Victor whispers beside him.

The teenager's blue eyes fall back to him, and his brows knit together. He clicks his tongue, as if he's offended by the gracious words. "Whatever." Then he sucks in a deep breath and closes his eyes. "Look. We've got one shot. If you fuck this up, I'm not helping you again."

Victor's heart pounds with anxiety. His cheeks grew hot, but he nods regardless. "Got it."

The teenager's fingers coil around the doorknob. He hesitates, and, at first, Victor wonders if he's changed his mind. "If you survive this, you owe me a program," he says with earnest, meeting his superior's gaze again.

The smirk that crawls up Victor's face isn't mocking in the slightest. "Of course, Yuri."

Redness swells across the younger skater's face and he promptly returns to the task at hand. He turns the knob and unlocks the door silently. He leans his head out and looks down both halls to make sure personnel aren't within close proximity. Then he leaves the door ajar behind him and slinks down to the right, hugging the wall. Victor watches, slightly crouch, from within the room as the blonde reaches the fire alarm. He raises a hand, gropes the handle tightly and pulls it down.

A sharp beep goes off, and, almost instantly, the entire hall floods with people. Victor ducks back into the room, unsure. He continues to watch as Yurio draws people's attention toward him—he screams, extends his hands into the air, and waves them aggressively like he's losing his mind. When he seems to have accumulated enough attention, he turns and starts the opposite way. A wall of people dressed in scrubs pursues him.

Once the wall of people has passed, Victor bolts in the opposite direction. His heart thunders in his chest. Pain surges throughout his body, but he bites his gum to fight it. He makes strides, reaching the end of the hallway.

When he turns left, he sees the elevator open in front of him.

And a handful of personnel funnel out.

 **YURI**

"Yuri," comes a calm, familiar voice through the receiver.

"Mom?" Yuri's voice trembles between chattering teeth. His adrenaline has expired, and he almost doesn't believe it's her.

"Are you all right?" She sounds normal, like nothing has happened to her. Like he hasn't done anything to taint their relationship. Like he hasn't _hurt_ her. But the question leaves him stuck and ill-prepared.

He doesn't answer for a few painstaking seconds. "Yeah. I'm f-fine." The winter chill and the numbing pain in his side give him away. A cloud of heat releases from his mouth and evaporates into the air. "I'm fine," he corrects. "How are you feeling?"

"Better."

He waits for additional information. More details about her condition. When will she'll be discharged? Why hasn't she contacted him until now?

Instead, she asks, "How are your father and sister holding up?"

His heart lurches, and Yuri swallows thickly. It's a phrase his family's used ever since he can remember. Whenever something's happened to one of them, the remaining three will ask each other how they're doing—or, "holding up," because even though that question is used when it's never a good situation, the awkward atmosphere needs to be broken somehow. The last time it had been used was when Yuri lost in Sochi and had called his mom from the bathroom at the rink. Throughout their entire phone conversation, he had been doing his best to push back the tears from pouring out. When the call ended, he bawled his eyes out.

Yuri inhales deeply. "They're holding," he replies, as he has so many times before.

"Can I speak to your father?"

The ache in his side has become the least of his worries. "Dad's not home right now. Neither is Mari."

"Where are they?"

"Dad's out shopping, and Mari's at Ms. Minako's place."

A pause wedges between them. The cold starts to get to him again, and Yuri presses his back against the bridge's concrete as a barrier against the icy wind. His hands shake uncontrollably.

"Mom?" He asks, fearing the silence.

"Yuri," she finally says, her voice more stern than ever. "We both know your father and sister aren't out somewhere."

His mouth drops.

As if sensing his reaction, she continues, "I tried calling their phones for the past two days. The house phone seems to have been disconnected, too. Then someone came to me the other night and let me know that Mari's phone had been found in a garbage bag."

His heart sinks into a deep void.

"Now, please, Yuri. Tell me where they really _are_."

Images cloud his mind. The silence is enough to answer her.

"I see," she says in her neutral tone. It's the kind of tone he's not afraid of nor is it reassuring. But it's a tone that only belongs to her. Nobody else can imitate it. It's indifferent. "Are you outside?" Does she not know? Does she not want to know the details? Or does she know and not want him to think she knows what's happened to her husband and daughter? "You sound cold," she adds. It's like she has some sixth sense—she can tell when he's chilly or heated or distressed simply by the sound of his voice through the receiver.

"I'm outside," he answers.

"Where?"

He licks his lips and closes his eyes. Yuri feels the blood begin to smear his pants. He becomes colder and lightheaded. So he slides down the side of the concrete and sits in the grass. "Under a bridge, somewhere in the middle of the city."

Another pause, and he wonders if she's hung up.

"You should go home. Warm up."

He stifles a laugh. She sounds so…unfazed. His chest tightens as the words peel through, "I can't go home, Mom."

"Why not, Yuri?" She sounds like she has no idea, but underneath her calm voice, Yuri senses the haunting distress boiling.

"Because the police are there."

"What happened?"

"I—" He tries to say but the words get caught in his throat. Yuri covers his face with an open hand, bawling into his palm. His mother's voice continues asking him what has happened that's made him so upset. But if he tells her the truth—if he somehow manages to get the words out—he'll corrupt her, too.

"Yuri," her soothing voice says with slight urgency this time. He knows that whatever he says and whatever he doesn't say will be equally as poisonous to his mother's ears.

He vigorously rubs his eyes until they feel just as irritated as when he had been sprayed by the other Yuri. "Mom, I-I don't think I'm going to make it home anyway. I don't think…" He inhales a strained breath, choking back more tears. "I don't think…Dad or Mari will either. I'm sorry, Mom."

The silence that forms between them is more painful than the pulsing wound in his side.

"It's okay," she finally says. "It's okay, Yuri."

"Mom…"

Something appears in his peripheral vision.

Yuri looks over, and the phone lowers from his ear. His mother's distant voice calls his name, but he ignores it.

Two men stand there, and one flashes a badge in front of him.

"Yuri Katsuki. You're under arrest for kidnapping, murder, and attempted murder."

Yuri glances down at his phone. And that's when it hits him.

 _They tracked me._

 **VICTOR**

Victor ducks behind the corner as swiftly as he can just before the handful of personnel see him. His heart stutters as they turn the corner, but relaxes the moment they pass him—completely oblivious.

He watches them down the hall as they start toward Yurio, who's being restrained by copious amounts of people in scrubs. Despite his small stature and an injury, he fights back with incredible strength and eventually breaks free. Then he starts vandalizing the hospital by toppling over tables and chairs, or whatever else he can get his hands on.

"Someone grab him!"

"Restrain him!"

The words and urgency almost distract Victor enough from his mission. But then the teenager gives him the slightest look that says, "What the hell are you still waiting for, you idiot?"

So, Victor forces himself to turn back around, ignoring Yurio's distracting calls and the high-pitched alarm.

He does it just in time, too.

Just as the elevator doors begin closing, he slinks inside, unnoticed.

He holds his side, trying not to breathe in too much to rip his stitches, but enough to catch his breath and prevent himself from passing out of exhaustion. Using the wall as support, he leans against it and watches the bright number of Floor 2 descend to Floor 1.

He's made it halfway.

Now all he needs to do is get through the ground floor and he'll be free to rendezvous with Yuri. He imagines what will happen when they see each other—they hug, they kiss, they potentially do more, if Yuri will permit Victor. But then the Russian is reminded of the severe wound that Axel had inflicted on his lover, and the look on Yuri's face when he realized that he had been hurt. A sickness builds in his stomach, and Victor leans over like he's about the vomit. He grows lightheaded again, his vision blurs, and he uses the rail inside the elevator for extra support to keep him steady.

When he finally hears the soft yet satisfying _ding,_ Victor holds his breath and composes himself—preparing for whatever may arise beyond the metal doors. His heart thunders in his tightened chest. He's about to pass out.

The doors slide open.

Nobody's waiting for the elevator, thankfully. He peeks out and checks both ways. People are walking toward him in one direction, but they don't seem as urgent as he anticipated—especially with the alarm going off. He decides to play dumb and start walking in the opposite direction, having seen a door to the outside behind them. Meanwhile, he keeps his head tilted down.

A surge of adrenaline pumps into him as they pass but say nothing. He briefly looks back to see them talking amongst themselves and staring down at a couple of clipboards.

Victor releases all the tension in his body as he heads toward the door. Beyond it, he can see the snow continue to fall with force.

The electronic doors fly open, and a gust of chilling air hits Victor everywhere. With only a hospital gown as his attire and no slippers to his name, he can already feel his body shaking.

But he doesn't care.

Fighting through both the numbing cold and exhaustion, Victor can see that the hospital is not too far from the airport where he had landed. Upon his arrival, he had done a bit of additional research on Yuri Katsuki's life. Thanks to this, he knows, based on the airport and hospital's locations, where his destination will be.

Another harsh gust hits him and carries with it the scent of salt. Evidence of where he must go.

Toward the sea.

 **YURI**

The men step toward him, guns drawn, and Yuri promptly stands up and takes a step back. If he charges them, he loses. If he runs, he'll be shot. If he does anything besides cooperate with the authorities, he's at risk of failure.

As they continue to advance and demand that he give himself up to their restraints, a thought comes to mind that, strangely, doesn't involve Victor.

He's small, barely about to form complete sentences yet, and he's standing at this very spot alone. It's summertime, maybe. Wild flowers cloak the area, and it's the rainy season, because a puddle sits in front of him. But Yuri isn't concerned with the puddle itself, but rather what lies within it. He kneels down and examines the tiny, wiggling creature.

A tadpole.

He cocks his head to the side and then takes a stick and pokes at the amphibious creature curiously. It half-swims and half-crawls away from the prodding object. When Yuri grows tired of using the stick, he tosses it aside and gropes within the water, trying to catch the tiny thing. He manages to trap it between both hands and lift them up, having laced his fingers together tightly so only small streams of water can squeeze through them. He feels the little thing move across his palm for a few moments before finding rest. Yuri opens his hands to examine the alien-looking creature. It lies limp in his palm, and he starts to wonder if he's killed it.

Then, all of a sudden, it bursts to life, leaping out of his palm and falling perfectly into its puddle.

He's stunned. A tiny thing like that had not only surprised him, but also outsmarted him.

Yuri remembers the memory like it had occurred just yesterday. As the armed authorities make strides, he decides to play the same game as the tadpole had.

He stops. "Okay," he says, lifting his arms up and out. A sharp pain hits his side, and he winces. The smell of metal begins to seep into his nostrils. But Yuri tries to ignore it. "Okay. I give up."

Both men exchange looks and one of them nods to his partner, who reaches around and removes a set of handcuffs from his back pocket. Then he approaches Yuri without telling him to turn around. Interesting mistake.

But it works in Yuri's favor.

He waits for the man to place his gun back in its holster and grab one of his wrists to cuff. Yuri swiftly snatches the man's wrist with one hand and grabs the weapon with his other. He's never been one to fight authorities (he's never had a reason to) but the thought of leaving Victor alone in the place they had promised to reunite has given his renewed vigor—strength he didn't realize he had a moment ago. He pushes the barrel of the gun against the man's head and forces him to turn around, using his body as a shield against his partner.

"Let him go," the other man orders, readying his weapon.

 _Typical_ , Yuri thinks. When will police know that ordering someone to let a hostage go without any reason to won't work?

Yuri feels the blood continue to blotch his sweater and the cold chill irritate his senses. If he doesn't let this hostage situation go soon, he won't make it to the rendezvous point. "You let me go, and I'll let him go. Deal?"

The other officer grinds his teeth together as if in thought. "Fine."

But Yuri doesn't trust him. "Put your gun down and turn around." When the other officer hesitates, he pushes the gun's barrel against his hostage's temple. "Now," he demands, feeling time shorten for him the more blood seeps out of the fresh wound in his side.

The other officer finally obeys, placing his weapon on the ground and raising his hands into the air. "Okay," he says, calmly. "Okay, just let him—"

"Turn around," Yuri snaps, wincing.

The officer turns on his heel.

"Get on your knees."

He does so.

Yuri begins walking backward, taking his hostage with him, and peers over his shoulder to make sure nobody's behind him. "Stay where you are. If you get up, I'll shoot him."

The other officer stays put as Yuri and his hostage round the side of the bridge. Drops of red trail in front of them.

"You're bleeding," his hostage notes, his voice surprised.

Yuri hushes him, pushing the barrel against his temple again. He continues to walk backward until they reach an alleyway near the bridge. He licks his lips, feeling lightheaded again. This time, he stumbles but manages to catch himself before he falls. The gun narrowly avoids slipping from his grasp.

"How bad is it?" The officer asks.

"Shut up," Yuri hisses, shaking his head in a futile attempt to relieve the dizziness that's steadily overtaking him. His breaths shorten.

"I can help you. We can take you to the hospital."

"I don't want a hospital."

"Okay," he concedes. "What do you want?"

Yuri continues to find any way to prevent himself from passing out. He bites down on a small chunk of his gum until he tastes a metallic tang on his tongue and swallows some. "Time," he says.

The officer lowers his arms an inch, perhaps growing tired of holding them up. "Time?"

"Yes," Yuri insists.

"How much time?"

"Enough to see Victor."

The officer's head turns slightly around to face him. Yuri catches the subtle furrowing of his brow. "Victor?"

Yuri's breath continues to shorten, and his heart feels like its busy running a marathon. He isn't sure how much time he has left. He can feel the blood trickling down his pant leg. His hold on the gun weakens. If he were the officer, he'd easily be able to swirl around and swiftly turn the tables. But the man remains frozen with a gun still presses to his temple. Based on appearance, he isn't much older than his captor. A cold sweat drizzles down the nape of his neck and disappears into his collar. This must be his first encounter of this kind.

Yuri finally answers, "Victor. My…love."

The officer pauses, and then a sharp, " _Oh_ ," escapes his mouth. "I see. Victor." He turns to face forward again. "Well, I'd like to see my wife and daughter again, too. I think we can help each other."

Yuri licks his chapped lips. "Hold old is your daughter?"

"Four."

Yuri can see himself at that age—naive, happy, and _peaceful_. Absent any concern that this world may hold sins beyond his belief. No child understands at that age. No child _should_ understand at that age.

He wishes he could go back…

Rewrite everything…

The first time he met Victor.

The first time he stepped onto the ice.

The first time he walked.

The first time he drew breath.

Everything.

Yuri's chest feels like someone's sitting on top of him every time he breathes in and out. The numbing pain surges through his lower body. The cold November chill begins to have an effect on him. He can't stop shivering. His teeth chatter violently as he replies, "W-w-walk."

"Huh?"

"Walk," he demands, gripping the back of the officer's collar like a lifeline. "And d-don't stop until y-you reach your house."

Another fierce gust of wind passes through, making them both shudder.

"Okay," the officer says. "Okay. Thank you."

Yuri's grip on his collar loosens, and the officer starts walking. Yuri follows him with his eyes until he's nothing but a moving dot in the distance. As he watches, something begins falling.

Snowflakes.

Only then does he turn and stumble toward his final destination.

 **VICTOR**

Victor reaches the bottom of the stairs and reads the sign, _Ice Castle_ , encrypted into the building in front of him. He can barely feel his body anymore—the snow has fallen considerably harder. And while Victor has endured snowstorms in Russia that nobody in Japan could even imagine, at the end of the day, he is still human.

He ascends the flight of stairs, using the railing for support, gritting his teeth together for added relief from the pulsing ache throughout his body. He passes the childish graffiti on the side of the building—a pair of chibi characters ice skating and smiling together—to reach the front door.

It's open.

As he opens the door and steps inside, a heat wave hits him, giving him a much needed reprieve.

Victor doesn't notice the broken glass until he narrowly avoids cutting his feet open from a few shards beneath his soles. A light is on, well enough for him to avoid the shattered glass around him. He can already see drops of dark liquid on the ground. Sickness builds in his stomach, twisting into a knot. He swallows back fear and follows the trail beyond the vending machines and the double doors to the rink and heads into the locker room.

When he enters, he's immediately greeted by a pair of folded clothes and a box filled with ice skates. Not his own. But they'll do.

Victor shrugs off his light attire and dresses himself in the two-set pair of black and purple leggings and a sweater. Then he plucks the skates from their box and continues to follow the red trail to another door on the opposite side of the locker room.

He opens it to the rink. It's been lit up by every light imaginable. It feels like he's about to step into a competition. But the stands are empty.

Except for one.

"Hey," he says.

Yuri is hunched over on his seat, his head hanging. When he hears Victor, he raises his head and meets his gaze with wide eyes. "Hey," he replies, just above a whisper. One arm hugs his stomach.

"Were you waiting long?"

Yuri shakes his head.

Victor sits down beside him. He glances at the dark puddle building beneath Yuri's seat but forces back anything less than a warm smile. "I'm glad to see you're here."

"I'm glad, too." His tone remains just above a whisper. Enough for Victor to understand him, but also understand the severity of the situation. Still, Yuri manages to mask anything with questions. "Were you followed?"

"I don't think so."

"Good."

"What about you?"

He lowers his head again, perhaps to savor some strength. The light in his eyes dulls. "I was, but I think it's okay. For now."

"For now?"

"I don't have much more time."

The words threaten to destroy him, but Victor maintains the facade that he's all right. A facade he has perfected throughout his skating career. He nods and then notices the skates on Yuri's feet. He wiggles his frozen feet into the skates provided for him. They fit snuggly, and he stands and offers a hand. "Then we should use it wisely." His smile extends as Yuri lifts his head and cocks a quizzical brow at his lover. "May I have this dance, Yuri Katsuki?"

The younger skater's eyes widen again, bringing light back into them. Then he raises his hand and laces his fingers together with Victor's. His skin's colder than the Russian's despite having more layered clothes on. Victor helps pull him to his feet. Yuri stumbles into him, but Victor holds him in place, pressing his lips to the other man's forehead as he gropes around for the gate to the rink. When he finds it, they step onto the ice, hand-in-hand.

They glide to the center of the rink. Victor still holds half of Yuri up with him, keeping him from falling. It's just like how they had been at the banquet. Victor keeps his eyes from lowering to the ice, which is swiftly being cloaked in small drops of red, like tiny rose petals across white bed sheets.

Here is where they'll consummate their love.

Victor pulls Yuri into him, until their chests press together, and coils his lover's arms around his neck like a scarf. Their gazes never stray from each other's. If even one of them strays, the entire routine will be lost.

"I'll lead," the Russian whispers.

Small blotches of red forms around Yuri's ears, bringing some life back into his ashen face. "Okay."

Victor begins to wrap his arms around Yuri's thin waist. But a sharp grunt that escapes the other man's throat halts him. He promptly recoils, and his hands find rest on Yuri's hips.

Victor hesitates. "But first, I have a confession."

"Hmm?"

"I didn't have time to practice this program before I arrived in Japan. So, I'm improvising."

Yuri closes his eyes and chuckles.

The gap slims between them until their foreheads touch.

And Victor shuts his eyes as well before beginning.

The world around them dissolves. Soft music builds from somewhere, and Victor pulls Yuri into him until they're in complete sync with each other. He lifts Yuri into the air, and his partner smiles widely and poses to an applause neither can see. They spin and twist and leap and remain hand-in-hand throughout their performance.

Victor's lips meet Yuri's, and they're breathing each other's breaths for a time.

Then they find the white bed sheets covered in rose petals. Victor peels the stained clothes off his lover's body, finding no wound beneath. Nothing but soft, wet skin. He gently but firmly pushes him down and then begins work on his own attire. When he meets Yuri in the bed, they are both wearing nothing more than their skin. Their lips find each other with ease, like they have known each other for their entire lives, and their body's connect. They explore every inch of each other—lips, thighs, hips, abs, eyes, mouths, ears, genitals—anything. _Everything_. Nothing is left abandoned. The rose petals fall around them, cloaking them in their red glow. The men laugh and smile and hug and make love again and again and again until…

…they've become one.

And once it's all over, Victor holds Yuri in his arms, cradling him like an infant. They lower to the ice, with Yuri's entire weight resting on his other half.

"Yuri," Victor whispers, choking back tears, and looking out at the rink that has been painted in his lover's petals. "Happy birthday."


	16. Chapter 16

16\. Yuri P. - III

* * *

 **ONE YEAR LATER**

Yuri Plisetsky's feet are too small for these skates.

Yet, as he entwines the laces together, he thinks about who he's dedicating this upcoming performance to. A year has gone by like a blur—the flurry of media attention, the recovery process, and the additional hassle of explaining everything to his family and coaches when he had returned home. Though he fabricated most of the specifics to avoid more unnecessary attention.

The blonde stands for a moment to straighten some wrinkles in his sequin costume. In his open locker's mirror, the purple and red coloration glimmer back with both pride and intimidation. Goosebumps run across his body, and his heart lurches at his reflection.

One year ago today, he had narrowly avoided meeting his end at the hands of someone who shared his name.

Yuri Katsuki—Japan's top male figure skater, now infamous serial killer, and, secretly, Victor Nikiforov's lover. None of those traits seemed capable of belonging to the same person, but they did. Now the rest of the world has moved on from that, but Yuri can still feel himself lingering in the past.

The scar under his arm is a firm reminder. He traces it through his costume with a finger, feeling the thicker skin beneath. The sensation of being stabbed by a maniac is just as fresh as when it had happened a year ago.

But Yuri isn't the only one who's struggled to move on. From what he knows, Ms. Minako has been going to therapy regularly for the past year—longer than what the blonde could stand. He ended his sessions after four months when he started to realize talking to someone who does nothing but nod and ask him how he feels was just another scheme to drain his pockets.

Axel, the little girl also rescued from the scene, has relocated somewhere else and is now living with her mother's family. Yuri searched through the web for any recent information on her beyond that, but all he knows is now she's living under a different name. Smart decision by the family. The easiest way to avoid the press is to pretend to be someone else. If Yuri's face and personal life weren't already well known to the media, he would've considered the same solution. Every time he reads something about himself, he wonders where or how the writer had discovered such information. A part of him wishes he could dye his hair, add a few inches to his height, and take a plane to somewhere far away from the real world.

But then that leaves Victor.

The last time Yuri had visited him was about two weeks ago. Yavok had advised the teenager against visiting the former world's best figure skating champion. He stressed that Yuri shouldn't see his inspiration in such a light. But, like Victor, Yuri doesn't always listen to his coach.

So, after a long day practicing at the rink, he slinked away and found himself at the front door of St Petersburg's Rehabilitation Facility for what could easily have been his hundredth visit within the last few months. He had frequented it enough in secret that the secretary recognized his face.

"Hello, Yuri," she said with a warm smile.

"Is he available right now?" he asked, already signing his name on the visitor sheet.

"Yes. He's in his room. Do you need help finding it?"

"Nah, I'm good."

"Okay. I'll buzz you in." She leaned over and a short buzzer went off, giving Yuri the signal to pass through a set of double doors.

Yuri walked down a long hallway with his hands buried deep into his pockets and took a few turns until he reached a door with the number 106 on it. He knocked twice before opening the door.

Scanning the sparse room, furnished with only a bed, a dresser, a desk, a closet for storage, a couple of chairs, and an adjacent bathroom, he found the person he had been looking for sitting by a large window that overlooked the city.

Yuri stepped closer to the large window, looking down at the city lights that looked like tiny, flickering fireflies. The spectacle almost distracted him enough from why he had come.

"Hey, Victor," he said, his gaze falling to the man sitting in the chair beside him. The blonde found a rolling chair near the desk and pulled it over to sit down by his former superior's side. He leaned back into his chair, feeling it bend a bit from the pressure. "Still in the same place I left you, huh?"

No answer.

The teenager licked his lips and shifted in his seat, searching for what may or may not have been what Victor wanted to hear. "The new season starts in a couple weeks. Yavok's been up my ass for the past few months." He chuckled at his own words. "Guess that means he's starting to warm up to me." Seeing no change in his superior's face, Yuri turned back to the window and looked for some solace among the million lights. "When I used to watch you on television winning every competition you ever performed in, I thought to myself 'I'm going to be there some day. And I'm going to be better than Victor Nikiforov. And he's going to finally look miserable instead of so god-damned happy all the time.' But now I realize how shitty of a dream that was, because, even if we had competed together and I had won against you, you'd still be smiling. You'd be smiling because you'd finally be free. Now I realize skating was your curse as well as your talent. If I had won, you would've been released from your torment." He rubbed his already damp face from getting anymore wet. "If I had been there sooner, I could've saved you. I could've seen you compete again. I could've… _fuck_." He rubbed vigorously at his face until it hurt to open his eyes.

When Yuri lowered his sleeve, he saw no change in Victor's face. His eyes, once filled with such beauty and shine stared blankly with dull, false interest out the window. His silver locks hung over his pale forehead. In the dim light, they appeared grayer than ever before. Yuri could see a small bald spot forming on the crown of the other Russian's head, where the hair thinned the most.

The blonde breathed in deeply to prevent himself from shattering apart worse than Victor clearly had. Upon exhaling, he said, "I've told you this countless times before but I hate you for loving him. I hate what he did—has _done_ —to you. I hate coming here and seeing you. I hate that you'll never be able to compete again. And I hate myself for being too weak to persuade you to leave him and come home." Yuri leaned forward in his chair and ran his fingers through his blonde tendrils. "This is the last time I'm going to say that. Yavok warned me that I'm jeopardizing my athletic prowess by coming here." He stifled a mocking laugh while thinking about how Yavok had practically screamed the warning at him. "He doesn't want me to see you like this. Nobody wants to see you like this. Victor Nikiforov, the greatest figure skater of his time, has been reduced to practically a vegetative state."

Yuri recalled the moment Victor stopped speaking or even acknowledging others. Numerous rumors, spread by amoral media outlets, about Victor's retirement and subsequent transfer to this hospital were enough to make anyone lose their mind. The one thing that had become more famous than his winning streak was his downfall.

Yuri had watched it all happen like some helpless viewer watching their favorite show get cancelled.

The blonde's gaze fell to Victor's curled hand that still rested on the arm of his chair. He reached over and curled his fingers around his superior's cold knuckles. "I'm sorry, Victor. I'm so sorry." As his grip tightened, something crinkled. Furrowing his brow, Yuri wedged some fingers in between Victor's fist and pulled out a piece of crumpled paper.

Flattening it, his eyes widened at the face that stared back at him. The familiar but haunting brown eyes, black hair the color of a raven, and pale skin. Yuri Katsuki's image was all but marred by the soft smile on his face.

Sickness built into his stomach. Yuri looked up and still found no change in his superior's face. He waited for Victor to turn and make eye contact—notice that the only remnant of his deceased lover had been removed from his grasp. Yuri awaited to hear him call him by the mocking nickname, Yurio. He waited, but nothing continued to happen. He was speaking to a shadow. This goodbye was supposed to have happened many months ago. But Yuri always had a habit of returning. Something in him told him that Victor's condition would improve—that he'd be _alive_ again.

Yuri's grip loosened, and he placed the crinkled picture on the nearby desk facedown. "I'll compete with your skates," he said, standing and facing Victor. "I'll win with them, too." Choking back his emotions, he ended that conversation with one final promise: "I swear I'll bring you back to us somehow." With that said, he finally turned and exited the room.

The blonde leans forward in his benched seat and inhales deeply, drinking in the promise he had made to Victor. The skates sit underneath him as if chastising his decision.

A door creaks open, and Yuri's head rises to great his coach.

"You ready?" Yavok asks, fixing his blue scarf until it wraps around his thick neck like a noose.

"I'm always ready," he says with pride.

The old man's eyes wander down and widen briefly at the skates. Then his lips press together. "You shouldn't be wearing those."

The blonde snorts. "Why not?"

"They're too big."

"So?"

"So, they'll weigh you down."

But the teenager excuses him with a hand. "I've practiced enough with them to know that won't happen."

Yavok grumbles, and Yuri waits for the lecture that is sure to come.

It never does. The old man sighs through his nose. "You're wearing his colors, too?"

Yuri straightens his collar and any additional wrinkles in his costume. "Of course. What's so wrong with that? I thought you'd be happy."

"There's nothing happy about the colors purple and red." His eyes scan the costume with doubt. "Maybe we should ask the designer to—"

"There's no time," Yuri interjects. "I have to be in the rink now, don't I?" He starts walking toward the same door that his coach had entered through.

"He's not coming back," Yavok says so delicately that it's unclear if he meant to say it to himself or to the blonde.

Yuri stops at the door and cranes his neck around. His mouth opens to say something, but he instead grabs the doorknob and stalks out of the locker room, not bothering to wait for his coach.

As he heads down the hall, he can already hear the distant rumbling of applause. He comes to another door that shakes in response to the din beyond its wood. Yuri inhales and exhales as he opens the door.

A burst of energy and light form around him. The blonde lifts his hand to shield his eyes from the overcast of artificial beams hanging from the ceiling. Cheering and screaming swarm his eardrums like bees. A fresh chill runs down his spine as he advances toward the reason for such commotion.

Beyond the fence, he sees Christophe Giacometti finishing the final few jumps in his program. When he comes to a halt at the end of his song, Yuri catches the slightest tear crawl down the Swiss' face. He subtlety wipes it away as he skates back to the gate where his team waits. A torrent of compliments rain down on him from his team members—some saying that this performance could easily land him the top spot. But all the Swiss does is nod and keep his head tilted toward the ground as if embarrassed by the large amount of praise.

Then something catches his attention. He looks up, eyes wide, at Yuri. As his gaze examines the younger skater's costume, his expression seems to have anticipated someone else. The look of hope in his eyes fades, and he quietly saunters away to hear his scores.

Yuri follows him with his eyes and feels a familiar tightness in his chest. Someone taps the back of his shoulder. He turns to see Yavok again.

His coach gestures with his head. "It's time."

The blonde removes the guards from his skates and shuffles to the gate, supporting his weight with his hands on either side of the barrier. When he steps onto the ice, it's like he's pushed the on button. A roar of applause floods the echoing high room, and the teenager feels each scream and clap rattle through him, down to his bones. The announcers eagerly project his name across the thundering rink as the audience rises with strength.

Yuri skates the perimeter of the rink, feeling the weight of the skates around his narrow feet and the space between his toes and either toe cap. The same space that Victor had occupied once. He's not big enough for these skates. He knows. But it's already too late for him to change his mind.

As he circles around, he catches something out of the corner of his eye. The blonde's gaze lowers to his reflection on the ice. For a moment, he sees a man with silver hair and crystal eyes dressed in identical attire. When he blinks, the man is replaced by his reflection.

No. He hasn't made a mistake.

Yuri finds his place in the center of the rink.

As the energy from the audience dies finally, he has a brief moment to close his eyes and collect his thoughts:

 _Watch me, Victor. I'll save you this time._

Yuri's heart surges, and the music begins.


End file.
